


You're A Criminal As Long As You're Mine

by collaborativesheriartyparty



Series: To What End? [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, [soup nazi voice] No spoilers for you!, except for the eventuality implied by the rating, jimlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1302478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collaborativesheriartyparty/pseuds/collaborativesheriartyparty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're not sure what to make of it, but know that it's something special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Not our playground, we just play in it. All characters belong to BBC Sherlock, its writers, etc.  
> This is a collaborative work, so paragraphs are separated by POV when necessary.  
> Title from Gaga's Bad Romance.  
> Thanks, all, for the amazing response to the first two parts. <3  
> New readers, we suggest starting with those. This one starts where Temptation Greets You left off.  
> Fair warning - this will be slow to update, as it's still in the writing process.

**Two Days Later**

 

I do apologise about the interruption again. SH

Sweet of you, but unnecessary.  I do understand.  –JM

Good. SH

Third time must be the charm? SH

Miss me already?  -JM

I didn't say 'third time's the charm the next night', but something like that. SH

Something like that, indeed.  You sure know how to plan an unforgettable evening out.  –JM

And you sure know how to make an evening unforgettable. SH

I hope the case was worthy of you.  -JM

Compared to prior plans? Not in the slightest. –SH

Most unfortunate.  Still, work comes first.  –JM

I'm painfully aware. –SH

Hope I didn't interfere too much with work. –SH

No more than you ever have, my darling.  Though someone did comment yesterday on my seeming more chipper than usual.  I didn't even bother scaring them for doing so, imagine that.  Does it please you to be a threat to my reputation?  -JM

You have no idea. –SH

I'm sure they were delighted to see their boss actually showing emotion of some kind. –SH

Says the man who never does but for me.  –JM

Guilty as charged. –SH

Though the Yard got a rare sighting of it as well. -SH

[And JoDeleted.]  Speaking of work - afraid I won't be around for a few days.  Business trip.  -JM

Fine. I'll be on my best behaviour until then. –SH

That wouldn't happen to be a lie, would it, Sherlock?  -JM

Maybe. –SH

Suppose you'll find out once you return, hm? –SH

If not a lie, then a great shame.  Big time difference but I'll be reachable, should misbehaving strike you as a better idea.  –JM

What, are you acting as my conscience now? Angel on the shoulder? –SH

I'll keep that in mind. –SH

I've been called many things in my lifetime, but angel's a new one.  Makes me laugh.  –JM

You'd only be a devil if you were encouraging it. –SH

Oh, but I am.  Or do you really intend to save it all just for when I'm around?  -JM

Well, yes. That's really when I need it the most, and it's even better when the company enjoys it. –SH

You may as well have joined in my shower this morning, for how very present you were.  –JM

Impossible to do without an invitation, really. -SH

How neglectful of me.  An unforgivable faux pas on my part.  –JM

Live and learn. At the very least, you know for next time. –SH

Indeed.  I trust you've something with which to occupy yourself this evening should my focus return to packing?  -JM

Oh, I'm sure I can manage. –SH

Do read tomorrow's paper carefully.  It pains me that you had an unworthy case, so much so that I may have made you a present.  You need only find it.  –JM

What did I do to deserve a present? Not that it's unappreciated, of course. –SH

I'm not sure anything in particular, or deserve.  Merely that I like indulging you.  –JM

So I've heard. –SH

Suppose I'll have to return the favour. –SH

And how might you go about that?  -JM

I would tell you but you've got some packing to do. Say it's a little treat that will be waiting for your return. –SH

You really are the best kind of awful, darling.  I look forward to it. –JM

You should. I'm quite excellent at returning favours. –SH

Tease. –JM

You love it. –SH

If this is your latest way of foiling my efforts, it's certainly a creative one.  –JM

As fun as that sounds,  why would I want to do that? –SH

It’s also working. –JM

Good to know. Do go pack, though. It would be terrible to forget something you might need due to flirting with the enemy. –SH

I'll take your mixed messages as indicator that the good doctor's in the vicinity.  Ciao, sexy. x –JM

Yes, SOS and all that. Have a good trip. –SH


	2. I want your horror, I want your design

**The Next Two Days  
**

 

Seeing John reading the morning paper was the first thing that sparked Sherlock to remember the previous night's texts from his favourite resident criminal, and if the way he sat staring at the doctor, tea in hand and wrapped in nothing but his sheets was any indicator, he was looking forward to the present promised. He was patient, however, though didn't take his eyes off of the print once whilst waiting for his flatmate to finish with it, even when said flatmate gave him a funny look when he finally put it down. Sherlock immediately reached for it before it even touched the table, the realisation that John was talking to him being the only thing stopping his journey back to his bedroom.

"You don't read the paper," came the surprised comment, and Sherlock could hear him reaching for the abandoned mug even before he had turned around.

"I do today," the detective replied promptly before continuing onto his room, not even waiting for the man to reply, closing the door behind him. This wasn't something to be shared with John, the initial reading of his present. It was between the two consultants now, only to be discussed with John later, maybe. Crawling back into his bed, Sherlock carefully set the paper down, his gaze immediately travelling over the whole of the front page. Something about the economy, that couldn't have been it. Jim must have been well aware of his shortcomings, and politics was one of them. The art heist, then? Would the present really have made the front page? Of course it would - attached to Buckingham, it was a headliner. It seemed too obvious, but if anything about reverse psychology was true, perhaps Jim would have anticipated his doubt and ensured it would make it anyway. An art heist, then. Opposed to quickly scanning the article, Sherlock actually read through it carefully, remembering all the little details - ten pieces stolen, took place overnight, nothing caught on video. Stumped the Yard - his specialty. Not too much of a focus on the art, either, which may have seriously tripped him up if there had been; no, nothing except how was the crime pulled off and where were the paintings now. It was just right after the frankly insulting case that had been given to him the night he'd had to part with Jim - intellectually stimulating, something he needed after a night of stimulation in other ways was given up. Certainly something to hold his attention for the day, at least, and Sherlock flipped through the rest of the paper with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It disappeared at an even tinier article on page seven, eyes just catching the name 'David Turner' and something about drug-related charges to ensure that yes, it was _that_ Turner.

He'd stopped going to the dealer after having been ripped off a number of times, back when he was far too gone and oblivious to even notice. That he'd been apparently blown to smithereens by a bomb may have made him give a short burst of laughter, though considering who had a certain flair for using bombs... Jim was certain to have a list of his former dealers; hell, even Mycroft had that list. It was touching, to say the least, for the criminal to have gone through the trouble of disposing of Turner. It was personal, made only for him - no one else would care that a drug dealer was blown up. This was two presents, really, one to make him think and get involved and the other to put a smile on his face.

It was only after a day of thinking on it, and numerous texts from first Mycroft and then Lestrade to get on it, that he would be putting off until as long as possible that he finally considered texting Jim his thanks. The man deserved it, organising something like this even on a business trip, only further proving that the criminal wasn't lying when he implied that Sherlock never strayed far from his thoughts. Bad manners to disrupt Jim if he was possibly in a meeting, which was possible given Sherlock's late hour and the time difference, but understandable, he hoped.

Shame you aren't here right now or I'd be returning the favour this second. As such, it will no doubt make up for the less than satisfactory previous case, though given my last stunt at the Palace, it's a wonder they're letting me back in. And, I do wonder, did you make the bomb yourself? –SH

**\---**

_My baby moves at midnight_   
_Goes right on till the dawn_   
_My woman takes me higher_   
_My woman keeps me warm_   
  
_What you doin' on your back, ah_   
_What you doin' on your back, ah_   
_You should be dancing, yeah!…_

If the resigned groan from Jim was any indicator, it would seem jetlag still had a heavy hand on the slowly stirring consulting criminal. Last night’s cocktails in the lobby were meant to resolve that issue, but he’d still been up late, going over details for the following day with Moran, and yes, perhaps eagerly awaiting word from Sherlock. He’d called it a night finally around three am, and now, a mere five hours later, the Shanghai sun was creeping its way through the slot in the curtains, conspiring with the Bee Gees’ pep to bring him back to life. Fine, fine - had to wake up, but didn’t have to be happy about it.

Coffee. There’d be some somewhere. The thought was an inspiring one, even if the lack of texts had the opposite effect. Patience, he told himself, for surely Sherlock had to be rather busy with his own business. The thought brought a small smile to Jim’s face. It had all been timed just right, really, helping sort the Harrison gang’s heist plan just when Sherlock needed something particularly fun to wrap his brain around. Sherlock might have sensed Jim’s hand in it, with or without the expressed promise of a present, but as per usual, the consultant was safe from any provable connection to the act.

He did wonder whether the other matter had caught the detective’s eye, but whether it had, didn’t matter. Jim rarely ventured so low as to hear the word on the street firsthand, but that Turner blamed Sherlock for his arrest and imprisonment (and planned to do something about it) had nonetheless been brought to Jim’s attention. Everyone knew where Sherlock lived, and some arsehole with a grudge and a gun was just too big a risk. It hadn’t been the first time Jim had made a move to protect his favorite distraction, but definitely the first time he’d made an effort to let Sherlock know it.

Oh, but this was problematic. Waking up and his first thoughts were of _Sherlock_. That couldn’t be good.

Rubbing at his eyes, Jim had to remind himself where he was and why, and finally draw up and away from the soft maroon sheets and surprisingly plush bed. No time for daydreaming – the sight of his laptop still open on the desk, and today’s suit laid carefully out over the tan sofa, said so. Coffee and breakfast were in order before the last bit of reconnaissance of certain sites relevant to today’s eventual meeting. Had to know where these bastards lived, worked, and spent their free time. Jim didn’t approve necessarily of human trafficking – an ugly business, one from which he’d plucked – rescued? – the occasional useful person and given them new purpose. Safer than what they might have had, anyway.

His business here – border advice, passports, the purchase of private planes - was not so much for the money, as for the knowledge of names and faces behind the organized atrocities. That sort of knowledge was most important, especially when he had it in mind to betray several of them in a few months. Keeping that eventuality in mind, the next couple of days should be easy, all confidence and occasional moral sense intact. More than the disco, this thought perked him right up, putting the cool smile of a private joke on his face and returning his focus to the present. A shower and he’d be set to rights; Jim made his way to it, stripping out of black tee and shorts in which he’d slept.

He didn’t waste time lingering beneath the spray, more a perfunctory wakeup, and twenty-five minutes later was already dressed, humming as he swiped up the phone from the table beside the bed. Oh, there was the moment for which he’d been waiting, and the message onscreen made the criminal grin. How just a few sentences could put his brain so thoroughly back in London, under the spell of imagining Sherlock’s voice, well, Jim would rather not consider the ramifications of that for too long. Didn’t have the time to, anyhow. He licked his lips in thought, and tapped a message back.

Promises, promises. I’m sure I have no idea to what you’re referring, dearest – but glad you’re having fun. –JM

It was just then that Moran’s signature knock sounded at the door of his room, and Jim slid the phone into his pocket, clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders, making a conscious effort to conceal the smile that had lit upon his features moments before. Jim made his way to the door and upon drawing it open, gave Sebastian a once-over.

The sniper was discreetly armed and had a shoulder bag full of expensive camera, but Jim was especially pleased to see the two Styrofoam cups presumably filled with coffee. Jim retrieved one gratefully and sipped at it as he turned back into the room. “I’d like the laptop in the safe in your room,” Jim stated as he unplugged it and closed it, clutching it to his chest as if it were a much beloved child.

Moran hung in the doorway, waiting for the boss to grab anything else needed from the room, and nodded. “Yeah, alright. Then let’s get to work.”

-

Oh, I've been hard at work on it. I can't say I was expecting an additional present, though. Feeling generous, or something more? –SH

Best explained later.  Busy, busy.  –JM

Fine, fine. Talk when it's convenient. Such a shame when work interferes... –SH

 

 


	3. You know that I want you...

**Some Hours Later**

2:44 PM, London 

No possible chance of you getting killed on a business trip, is there? I would hate to owe you a favour to the grave. –SH

10:44 PM, Shanghai 

Stayin' alive.  I brought protection.  –JM

Not a regular business trip, then, if you require protection. Interesting. –SH

Better safe than sorry.  You've a doctor to patch your wounds, I prefer not to receive any at all.  And I'm sure you've more interesting things to set that brain of yours on, don't you?  -JM

Been hard at work on it, thanks. Took a risk with the Palace, though. I was surprised I was allowed back in. –SH

Well, not everyone's as appreciative of the sight of you in a sheet as I am.  –JM

Mm. Maybe the effect is different in person. Care to find out? –SH

Somehow I don't imagine it'd stay on for very long.  Which isn't a no.  More of a promise.  –JM

Well, wouldn't be the first time I've been stripped of it, though the circumstances would be much more favourable this time. –SH

[I'm accustomed to going wherever, whenever I please without missing someone, you know.  What a strange feeling.  Deleted] I shall endeavor to conclude business here in a timely fashion, then.  Would hate for you to miss out on favourable experiences.  –JM

[I've had a few of those already, actually. Deleted] I can wait. Would hate for you to rush and make a mistake. –SH

That would be uncharacteristic of me in the extreme.  And just because you can wait, doesn't mean I can.  –JM

Oh? Not even a few days? –SH

I've waited so long for you, Sherlock.  A few days is tolerable, but only just.  Especially seeing as you're determined to make me want you, no matter where I am.  –JM

You can hardly blame me when it's so easy to do so. Which isn't to say the teasing is one-sided, nor are the effects of it, I imagine. –SH

You referred to work as an interruption earlier.  Rather seems I've created a monster.  –JM

You're supposed to keep your work and personal life separate. Bit hard to do in your case. I think I can afford to refer to it as such when it interferes with personal matters. –SH

The sheets here are maroon.  I think you'd look good on them.  –JM

On them or in them? –SH

I rarely typo. –JM

Shame we won't be able to test that theory. –SH

I'm testing it in my mind's eye.  –JM

That's not as fun. –SH

Are you misbehaving, Sherlock?  -JM

I always misbehave. You'll have to be more specific. –SH

Touch yourself for me, darling.  Since I'm unable to do so.  –JM

You're lucky I'm in a position where I'm able to do so. –SH

Are you? -SH

Big hotel bed all to myself, imagining you here.  You're the lucky one, I'd love to have my hands all over you right now.  Tongue and teeth, too.  –JM

I must say, I'm quite fond of your neck. You wanted me to leave marks, didn't you? Next time, I won't be so gentle. –SH

Better be a promise.  Just know I'm likely to give as rough as I get.  Would you enjoy that, if I left marks that only you could see?  -JM

I'm counting on it. Yes, I would, though you wouldn't be as lucky. I would delight in seeing the looks on your employees' faces when they see their boss with teeth marks on his neck the next day. –SH

Talking too much, my dear, when you should be remembering how it felt with my lips around you.  –JM

Wish you had the same memory. In good time, though. Just know that my tongue is much more skilled than my hand. –SH

I want to hear you.  Right now.  –JM

Right now? Fine, that'll make it a bit easier. It's so much more difficult typing with one hand. –SH

Sherlock was certainly right about that, Jim thought with a smile that might have been triumphant if it were less dazed.  The teasing texts and the images they placed in Jim's mind were lovely and all, but he needed to hear that rumbling voice, needed it like air at the moment.  Why Sherlock would be spending the precious daylight hours winding him up when he had a good case was beyond Jim's ability to reason, but oh, was it ever delicious.  He pressed Call and brought the phone up to his ear, anticipation twisting in his gut, his own breathing sounding too loud to himself as he waited for Sherlock to answer.  His stroking hand paused to run up and over his chest and hardened nipples, wanting to draw this out as long as humanly possible, despite the fact that they really both had other things they _should_ have been focused on. 

-

It had been fairly difficult to slip away from his work on the current case, but when Jim Moriarty ordered anything, it was even harder to say no, especially when that order was to touch himself. Sherlock had practically shoved John out of the flat, barking at him to go and wring whatever details he could from Mycroft; details that he didn't really need, but he wasn't about to have his flatmate here as he was winding himself and the criminal up in the very next room. That simply meant he had a limited amount of time, though when Jim mentioned calling him, it was the icing on the cake. Quicker to do than texting one-handed, and so much more satisfying to hear the man's words in his ear rather than seeing them on the screen. Trousers and pants were wrenched down just far enough for his hand to slip inside, he couldn't help a small smile as his phone rang, clearing his throat before he answered. "Hello," he greeted, huskily, almost breathing it into the receiver. "Who is it?" he added, just to tease, hand just idly stroking as he waited to hear Jim's lovely lilt answer.

-

Hell!  Just a word from Sherlock made Jim shiver.  He'd gotten undressed a few texts back, almost as soon as he'd realized the only place this conversation could logically go, and the involuntary reaction was decidedly not from the slight chill in the room.  He stretched contentedly against the mattress and pillows, wandering fingers pinching his right nipple hard enough to make his teeth dig into his lower lip.  "Mm, your worst nightmare," Jim answered with a dark and breathy laugh, one that spoke of how pleased he was to discover that the detective truly was at his beck and call.  His hand dragged down his abdomen and to the small packet of lube on the bed, nice and travel-size and easy to squeeze some out with one hand, before moving back to the jutting organ that had twitched like Pavlov's feckin' dog at the sound of Sherlock's voice.  A long exhale could be heard as Jim curled his fingers around himself once more, squeezing as he stroked upwards.

-

This decidedly was not the best of ideas, though with a trembling hand on himself and waiting at the base, Sherlock couldn't rightly bring himself to care too much. It was making up for lost time, something that should have happened days ago - not exactly the same thing but hopefully enough to hold the two consultants over long enough. At the sound of Jim's voice, he gave a long, languid stroke, giving a content sigh as he did so. Bringing the phone down from his ear, he quickly spit into his hand before returning to the task, raising the phone again as he did so. "Hmm. Not anymore," the detective answered with a breathy laugh, ending it with a muffled groan as he sped his pace up just slightly. At the exhale, he stopped at the tip, teasing just a bit as he imagine the criminal there with him. There was an ample amount of material that he could draw on from just those few minutes in the supply closet, but with Jim's breath in his ear, he closed his eyes, moving his hand again and biting down on an errant moan, easing down his pants a bit more so as to have better access.

-

At the hint of a groan, Jim pressed the phone harder to the shell of his ear, as if it could become Sherlock's lips and breath so close again.  It could, if he closed his eyes and really put his mind to it, and if he could manage to draw more noises from the other.  He vividly recalled being pressed against the door, having Sherlock's long fingers where his own were now, and his hips squirmed impatiently, rutting against the memory itself.  Of course he enjoyed Sherlock's honest answer, but was loath to say so.  "Well, then, I must be doing something wrong," Jim murmured, but the words fell from his lips too breathlessly to leave any implied threat or disappointment intact.  

"But then..." His slickened palm passed over the sensitive skin at his tip, and again, and Jim thought of Sherlock's lips and shuddered, imagination doing as much for him as the other's voice. "I suppose...you've not really got work in mind..." Jim's fingers circled again, and the sensation brought a soft gasp from his lips.  "Begs the question...what are you thinking about?" He wondered vaguely whether Mr. Observant could hear the slick slide of his hand, and it only galvanized him into moving faster, letting Sherlock hear the ragged moan before his voice dropped even lower.  "Are you remembering my mouth, Sherlock?"

-

It was a thrill to hear the usually so-eloquent criminal breathless, attempting to regain his composure when it was obviously so far gone, but it was amusing to hear Jim struggle to do so. It was both a blessing and a curse that the man was talking so much in a situation that really didn't call for it, but when they were on opposite ends of a phone, maybe it did. As such, it was Jim's breaths and gasps in his ear at least, rather than having to imagine what he would sound like with Sherlock's hands and mouth all over him, and it gave him a fairly good idea of what it would sound like once it was actually possible. At the gasp, he grasped himself tightly, thrusting into his hand once, imagining it was Jim there on top of him and feeling his cheeks flush at the thought of it, a soft whimper tumbling from his lips. He gave an incredulous, breathless laugh at the question, not sure that he could even answer coherently at the moment. Jim made the question easier to answer, though, and all he could manage was a moan in response to it, followed quickly by a "god, yes" to affirm it. Sherlock's hips came clear off the bed at Jim's lilting, soft voice, taking a moment to relax afterwards before he continued stroking. "I-I'm thinking of how I would feel around you," he breathed into the phone, his eyes shut as he imagined the image himself. "Your hands in my hair, guiding me..." He trailed off only because it dissolved into a groan as he sped up again.

-

What had begun as teasing and anticipation was fast spinning out of control.  Which was neither a surprise or a bad thing, considering the many taunting words tossed between them, the obvious and fearful factor of actually missing each other.  But this was as good a solution as any to the problem at hand, and at Sherlock's moan, Jim felt a new stab of heat and want spurring him on.  If it weren't for an ingrained wariness of speaker phone, he'd be utilizing it and both hands. His tongue darted out along his lips, resting on the lower as they remained parted, a dual effort with his bare, heaving chest to keep himself in supply of oxygen.  The circle of his fingers gripped tighter, hips forcing restlessly up into it, picturing those incredible lips pursed around him, the wet friction, the hollow of cheekbones, upward-glancing cerulean eyes, getting to drive his hands into those luscious black curls and pull, oh, _fuck_.  This was bound not to be a very long phone call at all.  It wasn't that the images were new ones, but to hear Sherlock voice them, and enjoy them...  "Sherlock..." The detective's name sounded almost like a plea, purred but with an edge of desperation.  "For the love of...everything sacred...don't stop talking..."  Even drunk on lust, it sounded like an order, though the words that weren't sounds could easily suffice.  The rapid pace of his hand was probably faster than he could dare thrust into Sherlock's mouth, but the blend of fantasy and possible realities was a heady and ideal one, and every little noise from down the phone line drew an equally helpless one from Jim - in sympathy, in unabashed want, in pleasure at finally getting another searing-hot fix of his favorite distraction. 

-

The sound of his name being said in such an erotic manner drove Sherlock's hips clear off of the bed again, thrusting into his hand again and again at the almost desperate ness that was evident in Jim's voice. Another laugh escaped his lips at the request, immediately having a flashback to their time in the supply closet when he was ordered not to stop, and he had to improvise. The circumstances were much more favourable now, where he could be as loud as he wanted to without repercussions and actually think about the best way to get the criminal off, and himself. It was a bit difficult to think and talk coherently while his focus was completely on speeding up his hand, though Jim had asked him so nicely to carry on. "Do you want to know what I'm thinking now?" the detective asked in a low voice, making the effort to be understandable through a flurry of groans and gasps. An attempt to engage the man as well, but he didn't give any time to answer as he gripped himself harder just thinking about what he was going to follow it up with. "I'm imaging how it would feel inside you." It was said in a purr, much like the one Jim had used to say his name, and the flush came back to his cheeks with a vengeance but no one was there to see it, spurring him on. He wasn't too sure how it worked yet, but he imagined the criminal would appreciate the sentiment at least. This alone stopped him from continuing, waiting in anticipation to hear how Jim would react, if he would at all, slowing down his movements just a bit to more languid strokes.

-

A whispered, eager hiss of 'yes' was Sherlock's answer, even though Jim could guess already what Sherlock might be thinking.  Not a difficult conclusion, given their continual game of upping the ante.  What he hadn't counted on was how good it would sound from that delicious rumble, how like lightning would be the suddenness and force of the strike against his composure.  It made him veritably wince with pleasure, head falling back against the pillow as a harsh huff of breath was accompanied by a deep, carelessly loud moan that ended in something like a whine.  Resignation to the wonderful imminent, and with one hand occupied with the phone, he could only picture it, too.  Could only pretend to feel it, tell his mind's eye to envision Sherlock's slim pale form between Jim's parted thighs, hips slamming.  The criminal's entire body, every muscle, tensed in anticipation.  

"Oh, you'll find out, darling," he promised in a  rushed breath, the words running together.  "Want you to.  Oh...so badly."  He was all-out panting now, heels digging into the mattress, both to steady his trembling form and to writhe against the sheets, body reeling from all the images flashing in the gutter of his mind.  He wondered whether Sherlock was idealizing even the private moments in the Shanghai hotel, if the taunting detective was picturing Jim putting his own fingers to purpose beyond present capabilities, and wouldn't the dear egotist just love that.  "All that...pent-up frustration of yours...take it out on me, wouldn't you?"  Jim wasn't sure how speaking was still possible, this close to the edge, but if Sherlock was so intent on pushing him over, the criminal was going to push right back.  His fist around himself was practically a blur.  "Hard...merciless, fuck..."

-

At the louder moan, Sherlock thrust into his hand, effectively speeding up the pace again, gripping particularly hard as it ended on a desperate sounding-whine. The perfect sounds for Jim to be making to go along with the image he was currently envisioning, with the criminal being the one he was driving his hips into. It was a bit difficult to picture it perfectly, with most of his clothes still on, though there was the slightest possibility that Jim could be into that. With that thought in mind, he quickened his hand, realising that it was a speed that would may have been a bit daunting for the man, though that was the beauty of being able to fantasize and with said man's panting breaths and moans in his ear, it made it all the more delicious and maddening to picture - so close and yet so far. He was speaking again, and Sherlock wondered how the hell he found the coherency to do so, but hoped to whatever deity that he wouldn't stop.

The promise was one that made his head spin and a gasp followed at the realisation that yes, Jim had just told him that he would be able to find out, and that he was practically begging for it. That he was just visualising it, yet sharing his thoughts with Sherlock. Pent-up frustration, definitely, for the wonderfully teasing man on the other side of the line. Frustration that he couldn't do anything about it now except groan into the receiver at the thought, picturing the criminal on top of him, bending his knees to accommodate the fantasy. The growl was enough to stop at the sensitive tip, head swimming at the fantasy that was vivid and not vivid enough, pressing himself back into the mattress before getting that beautiful friction again. Hard, merciless...if Jim wanted him to be that way, that certainly wouldn't be a problem and the words spurred him to snap his hips up over and over again, to prove that he could do just that. "You would like that, wouldn't you?" the detective asked in between panting breaths, a groan being ripped from his throat before he continued. "No mercy. Nothing except feeling you around me..." Another muffled groan as he bit his lip to stifle it, needing to continue. "Writhing." He had growled it, slamming his hips up at the same time. "Gasping for more." He stopped only because the words were incomprehensible after that, nothing more than a series of moans ending on whimpers following it.

-

For how violently they wracked Jim's senses, every moan may as well have been a thrust, every word a deeper one.  He'd have doubted Sherlock capable of producing either so hotly until hearing them now, letting them overtake him utterly.  Truth be told, that could occur whether he _let_ it or not, but Sherlock's use of that power wasn't abuse of it - he merely knew, understood exactly what it did to the criminal because Jim was striving (and succeeding) to do so in turn.  And it was all so, so good.

The husky question drew another whine from the back of Jim's throat, his legs trembling, overheated enough to feel drops of sweat roll down the inside curve of his knee.  He could imagine Sherlock's chest gleaming with it, with all that oft-restrained energy being put to good use and vigorous use.  Jim's hips twisted up off the bed helplessly, as if Sherlock had commanded the writhing.  The flaring of endorphins and heat were like a pulse all through him, as insistent and uncontrollable as he imagined Sherlock could be, and oh, did he wish he had the words to expand on the fantasy, but all he could manage was, "Yes, harder..." A command a plea or both, the last clear words Jim could manage as he felt the pressure of pleasure building.  His neck was exposed and long against the pillow like it was waiting for Sherlock's teeth, his eyes squeezed shut, blinded by the sensations seizing him.  "Sh-"  The breaths and moans in his ear were the final shove over, Jim's spine arching as he stroked himself through a mind- and body-rattling finish.  "Sherl-- Ah!", lips open in a throaty gasp as he burst once, twice over his sticky fingers, pearlescent streams and drops landing upon his tensing abdomen and momentarily breathless chest.  

-

That he was able to have so much control in this mutual fantasy of theirs was overwhelming for Sherlock, and it was a bit surprising that he wasn't letting himself get too carried away with it. Plausible, make it as tangible as possible, so that Jim could picture it perfectly in his mind. That particular bit was detrimental - if he was getting pleasure from this, and he certainly was, that was a bonus but it was all about the criminal at the moment. Hearing all of his subtle reactions in increasingly frantic gasps, winding him up by talking dirty but managing not to be overly vulgar...it was absolutely worth it, really. 

The imagery was evidently working, as it seemed that his company was lost in the very daydream itself, and Sherlock hoped he was right in the middle of it, experiencing it. Eyes closed, picturing it, he changed his pace to longer strokes rather than the short, choppy ones he had favoured before, but hearing the request to do it harder made him slow, instead focusing on driving his hips off of the bed as far as they were able to go. At Jim's sudden abandoned gasping of his name and the subsequent following of it, he tensed; hearing just the slightest cry was enough to exhilarate him and he exhaled slowly, attempting to relax his muscles. After a moment, the detective's eyes opened, a bemused smile coming cross his face. "Don't tell me you've finished already," he said in between laboured breaths, only teasing the man a bit but curious to know if he had indeed. Sherlock was not far behind him, though not quite nearly there, the fantasy of taking Jim harder but slower giving him a bit of time to recuperate from the earlier frenzy of teasing each other. 

-

It took Jim a long moment, letting the pleasure shock him and then settle into a dull thrum through his veins, before he could speak.  Breaths still heavy and erratic, head swimming, his loosened grip still pumping slowly.  Knowing Sherlock was still at it was awfully inspiring in that regard - remaining as hard as a rock, and wanting so to encourage the other.  

"Mmhmm," Jim hummed, not sounding at all regretful about it.  "But that doesn't mean you should stop." He licked his lips, reveled in the tremble in his limbs, the soreness of slight exhaustion in his arm and wrist as he considered his words.  With a clearer head it was easier to think and to speak, the urgent need sated, but the excitement and lure of the mental image still firmly in place.  Jim's voice was again a low purr, now that he had control of it once more, lips curved into a devious smile, the shivering aftershocks doing nothing to displace it.  

"I'd want to feel every inch of you.  Buried inside me, over and over, until you couldn't think.  I can take it.  I'm all yours.  Hold my hips in place...or have your hand over my mouth to keep me from getting too loud."  The criminal's soft moan was a real one, prompted by his own squeezing hand, and Jim wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't lose it all over again, just driving Sherlock closer and hearing the gorgeous reactions.  "It'd feel so good, darling.  So tight, you can't imagine.  Take your breath away.  Better than drugs.  Mindless...thrusting...All the cases, everything else forgotten...just giving over...come for me, Sherlock..."

-

The confirmation that his lovely company had finished before he had made Sherlock feel some form of strange victory, even though it wasn't really a competition. He was surprised he had lasted this long himself, though perhaps it was a subconscious thing, wanting to hear Jim come undone before he did and now that he had, the detective was free to finish at his own leisure, spurred on even more by the request to finish, and he certainly couldn't deny that. It wasn't difficult at all to bring himself back to the brink, especially now that Jim's focus was completely on him.

As Jim started up again in that low, almost hypnotising voice, Sherlock sped up marginally faster, knowing that all that the man was focusing on now was him finishing, and there was a bit of pressure but it was dangerously good. Mouth falling open just slightly as Jim began to assault his mind with tantalisingly obscene images, used to the voice promising things in the way of chaos and destruction rather than being taken and silenced, by Sherlock himself. It was beginning to be too much, it was already too much and had his other hand been free, he would have used it to hold Jim's imaginary hips in place. As such, all that was manageable at the moment was sliding down the pillows a bit, his own hips an inch off of the mattress and thrusting into midair, gripping himself just a bit harder to stimulate the promised tightness. The criminal's name was in between a constant string of unintelligible curses, calls for a higher power and increasingly frantic, hurried moans until the final command, said so lovely in that soft, teasing lilt that Sherlock was well aware he could never resist. With a last, long and drawn out groan, the detective rode out his finish, hips falling back onto the bed as he attempted to catch his breath, only vaguely aware that he would be needing to change his trousers. Breathing returning to normal after a minute, he remembered Jim still on the phone and gave a breathless laugh, simply lying there for a moment. "I was planning on it, but thank you for the permission anyway," Sherlock teased, eyes closing again to simply enjoy the post-come haze of the moment. "You're quite the storyteller, you know."

-

Jim was convinced that getting Sherlock off was some sort of art form.  Of course he'd thus effected his supposed nemesis' brain many times now, but this physical element was relatively new, and ever so fun with which to play.  Every little noise and hitched breath was music to Jim's ears - better than music!  It made the aftershocks all that much sweeter and more potent, their hold upon him seemingly never-ending.  Sherlock calling his name, cursing, losing himself; Jim's body temperature and pulse rate spiked anew in complete sympathy, and though he could wrench nothing further from himself, still a twinge of bliss ran through him, drawing a surprised but pleased sigh from Jim.  Even as beautiful as the moment itself, was the semi-silence that followed.  Both relishing the sound of each other's breath, coming back down to earth together.  It made him wonder how it might be in person.  Jim's imagination had, oddly or perhaps not so oddly, never gotten that far.  It always hit a block of apathy, or fear.  He couldn't in all truth imagine cuddling up to Sherlock in the aftermath - or was he merely afraid to picture it, and be let down by reality?  From this distance, it was comfortable, if only because it was more voyeurism than real connection.  Face to face...ah, who knew.  Right now wasn't the time to be dwelling on it, though the fleeting consternation had at least hampered the consuming lust for Sherlock.  Jim glanced down and rolled his eyes, debating using his carelessly-tossed shirt to clean up, and opted instead for the hotel sheet.  It was cheaper.  He'd tip the maids well, though.  

The sound of Sherlock's breath had mired Jim so deeply, gently in daydreaming that it was nearly a surprise when the baritone cut it again and drew his attention back.  He could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice, and it made him smile again, too.  The compliment was one he'd heard before, but he allowed it to strike him as one nonetheless.  "Well, I'll admit to giving previous thought to that...particular tale," Jim murmured, stretching his legs and torso out so that nothing would cramp, and stifled a yawn.  It had been a busy day and while there was still some business to conduct elsewhere in the world via email, he could afford to spend some time yet with Sherlock, merely...drifting.  "Though I'm surprised you've the time for stories.  Should I be insulted?  Have you solved it already?" 

-

That Jim had actually admitted to having pictured what he had used to help Sherlock along shouldn't have been a surprise, though hearing it and so close to his ear was quite the thrill. It wasn't exactly good for his ego, that was for sure, but it was still nice to know that he had been thought of in such a way. The aspect of work being brought up should have also been expected, though so soon after their little bout of fun was exhausting but so reminiscent of the criminal himself that he couldn't be too cross. After all, it had been a present and it wasn't unjustified to ask how much Sherlock had enjoyed it. He had already told him he would be returning the favour; this was simply icing on top of a cake that had yet to be eaten.

As such, he waited a few moments before he was able to use his legs again to stand shakily, reaching for a few tissues to clean himself up a bit and proceeded to change clothes as he spoke to the man. "Talking about work already? Charmer," he teased, tossing the offending pile of trousers somewhere in the vicinity of the rest of the laundry to be done. "If you really must know, I'm very close to wrapping it all up, yes. Though the Yard doesn't need to be aware of that for a short while. Don't want them to think I was involved with it, or that I'm involved with someone who was, in fact, involved in it." More teasing, though deep down, the detective had been grateful for the distraction while his own favourite one was away. A bemused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he thought about what would happen should he go and inform them that he knew exactly what happened and who was behind it, but would refuse to disclose who it was. Though, that would be cruel, and grant him far too much unwanted attention from a source he really did not care to have it from. "Though, I was only expecting the one gift. Am I that spoiled that you would throw in an extra one just to make me smile?" Referring to the Turner article, obviously, that he had nearly skipped right over. It had Jim written all over it, and the fact that no one else was aware of that made it all the more sweeter. 

-

A slight frown and furrow of brow touched Jim's features at Sherlock's sarcasm.  What else had they to talk about, really?  Alright, perhaps to bounce suddenly from one extreme of topics to the other was a distancing technique, but what did Sherlock care about aside from the work?  Violin?  John?  Sherlock likely hadn't had time for the former, and Jim didn't care to hear much about the latter.  His own work couldn't be discussed at present.  Still, Jim was grateful that Sherlock couldn't see the flicker of doubt that had crossed his face at the little tease.  If he thought for a second that Sherlock would want to talk about them, the two of them...to analyze or discuss what was happening or why...well, maybe.  But the criminal had no frame of reference for that being a worthy use of their time in either's estimation, aside from certan of the texts - but what one said via technology and via spoken word could often be so different, the first always being easier.  

My, only a minute ago everything had been so simple, and now the question 'How involved?' was resting on the tip of Jim's tongue, as if the answer mattered.  He bit it back, choosing instead to feel the swelling of surprise and slight regret simultaneously, that Sherlock might already be on the right track.  Or maybe it would turn out that he wasn't - followed the wrong idea or lead, that was possible.  Jim liked to think that the case would puzzle Sherlock for far longer than a few days, but perhaps that's why he'd put a time limit on presents in the past; so that neither would be disappointed.  It wasn't as if he needed Sherlock to prove his mettle, nor to lord his own genius in a cruel way over the other.  But maybe it was.  Maybe they weren't past that, and never could be.  He found himself hoping Sherlock was following the wrong track, and would need to start over, and not be so damned certain of himself.  

These weren't the right thoughts to be having.  Jim knew it.  If Sherlock was seeking the same praise the criminal had given in the past, well, it was being withheld for the moment, as were any hints.  Jim sat up slightly, the pretty haze dead.  He'd killed it by bringing work up, and he knew it.  That was frustrating, if only to himself.  It was a damn good thing Sherlock kept talking.  Oh, spoiled, yes, that was true.  "Which extra one?" Jim asked, feigned puzzlement in his tone.  Merely wanting to confirm: what Sherlock saw, and whether as a case, atrocity or as a gift; whether he and Sherlock were still on the same page.

-

There was the slightest doubt that Jim hadn't in fact been involved in the second story, but it had his name written all over it to be too much of a coincidence. Sherlock's former dealer, homemade bomb...it was the perfect crime. The question had been teasing, though, and he let out a quiet sigh of relief at the revelation. Moving back out to the living room, where he had kept the newspaper articles and where he could easily keep an eye on John should he come back any time soon, he pulled out the second one, looking it over again, all whilst keeping Jim in silence on the other line. He so wanted to be sure that he'd gotten it right, and didn't want to be humiliated if he hadn't.

"Turner," Sherlock said simply, putting the story aside again. He didn't need to elaborate any further, especially if the criminal was in fact involved with it. It was one that he had laughed at before, but Jim didn't need to know that; a simple promise that the story had pleased him was enough, after all. "I'm sure you weren't just being a good Samaritan, were you? Getting rid of the big, bad wolf..." The detective trailed off, laughing at himself a bit, shaking his head. It was sweet that the man had disposed of the dealer, and Sherlock had to give credit where it was due. 

Relaxing back in his chair, he gave a quiet sigh, adjusting the phone so that he could lean back and still be comfortable and hear Jim. Funny that he had sent his flatmate out to gather details about the very case that the man on the other line had in fact carried out. It wasn't a betrayal to the other side by any means, as he still planned on solving it rather than letting the Yard flounder, but a bit of getting to know the enemy, and he was certain he knew he enemy quite intimately at the moment.

-

So, Sherlock had received the correct little message.  Somewhat.  Knew the culprit and crime, but not the motive.  And for a moment, Jim was about to tell him.   _Because he had plans for you, he was gunning for you.  Because I'm the only one who gets to hurt or kill you, and some days, most days I'm not even sure I could._

His mouth opened then closed again, the thought aborted.  No.  It was too soon.  It wouldn't sound right.  

Jim ran a hand through his hair, remembering only too late that it was sticky, and sighed noiselessly, letting it drop beside him on the mattress.  He rose from the bed, suddenly genuinely restless, and plucked his boxer-briefs from the floor.  Cradling phone between ear and shoulder, Jim tugged them on, not fond of wandering around nude, in case of any emergencies.  Good samaritan, bah!  But in this case - yes.  He shivered, the air in the room finally feeling cool against his skin, and had to fight harder than usual against the urge to tell the telling truth.  With forced lightness to his tone, Jim answered, "Oh, I thought I'd just start picking them off one by one. Your old 'friends'.  Can't have any competition for your addiction to me, after all." 

-

For just a moment, Sherlock was silent, considering if Jim's answer was a genuine one or not. It sounded just vain enough to be an actual one, though Sherlock could have told him that there was no chance of that happening even if they weren't...what was the word, not together but something similar, maybe. That the criminal had thought about that, though, was something to be admired, and the confession brought a smirk to his lips. To let him know as much wouldn't do, as the man had a big enough ego to rival his own and he was fairly certain that the information was known anyway.

The terminology of 'friends' was something to raise an eyebrow at, and Sherlock wondered if Jim did think that his old dealers did constitute as friends. There weren't very many, as he had to make sure to be careful lest he attract the attention of his brother, the government, and he had always been one for familiarity. He vaguely mused that if it was the plan to pick off all of his old habits, maybe he would pay a visit to some former dens to figure out who else was around and who may be next. Considering his words to the criminal, Sherlock exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. Even if they were able to talk about it freely, it still dug up a few memories that he cared to erase. "I believe you suggested something that was 'better than drugs', if I remember correctly. If that's true, then there's really nothing to worry about." He'd said it teasingly, but was deep down grateful that Jim had at least been thinking of him, for whatever reason.

-

It occurred to Jim that Sherlock's answer was not entirely serious, but then again, neither had been his own.  Better that easily remembered smirk, than Sherlock feeling insulted that Jim's answer - his little white lie - implied a lack of control on Sherlock's part.  To have had to backtrack out of that response, apologize for it, would have been difficult had it been taken the wrong way.  Two bullets dodged, there, if only because they were so accustomed to teasing and wit that they knew no other way to talk to each other.  It wasn't that Jim would willingly change that fact, but did wonder how Sherlock would have responded had he been entirely honest.  Perhaps in an alternate universe they were exchanging meaningful sweet nothings.  In this universe, those weren't sought or wanted.  So Jim supposed, anyway.  For now, the opportunity had passed.

"Well, if you dig into it, you'll find Mr. Turner had some rather extremist sensibilities and interests," Jim stated, brushing over the continued flirtation to deliver what served as a soft warning of futility.  Turner hadn't, of course, but emails, phone records, anything that existed in the cloud rather than physically ruined in the blast, would heavily imply that he had.  Others might come to suspicion or incarceration for being related to it, but not the consulting criminal.  Whatever Sherlock may or may not supply to the Yard by way of assistance, would lead to believable elsewheres.  

"As for myself, I should be done here in...mm, two more days." Jim had meandered to the window, and was peering out over the Shangai night, the outer brilliant lights of the Renaissance hotel making it difficult to see much past the building itself, but he wasn't looking for or at anything in particular.  Merely considering, calculating, adding up the meetings, arrangements and purposeful tourism that remained. He could hear The Clash playing dimly now through the wall from Moran's room one over, a sign that the sniper was in for the night - a good thing, as he didn't much like worrying over what trouble the man might find in a city such as this.  

"Might have some immediate business to attend to, but after that..." He left the sentence open, a promise in itself, if Sherlock got his own work done in a timely enough fashion for them to find a few hours or even a full night for each other.  A plethora of factors was always at unpredictable play, most not in their favor.  But it was simply how things were, and both understood that.  

-

Unnecessary for Jim to be giving him any clues, helpful or otherwise as Sherlock hadn't been particularly struck with the inspiration to go and investigate the case or the cause of Turner's demise now that it had been told to him. Ask around a bit, sure, but nothing in the way of going to lengths to find out exactly how the dealer had spent his free time. Maybe it was an attempt to justify the criminal's actions, an excuse used in case Sherlock thought to judge or belittle him. That was the opposite; he had let out a laugh, after all, though he wouldn't be informing Jim of that fact. Subtle appreciation, that's all that would be given, at least during their conversation now. He had said that if the detective dug into it, implying that perhaps he should do just that. A thought to be filed away for later, when he needed a good distraction after finishing up with the art heist. 

The promise of Jim only being away for two more days made the detective open his eyes, as if he expected the man to be standing there in front of him that instant. What a sight that would be, and completely counter-productive to what he was currently working on. The daydream flitted from his mind, no doubt a lingering image left behind from the one they'd shared just minutes earlier, though the news did make him perk up a bit. Immediate business, of course; crime never slept, after all, and certainly when its leader was away. The statement had been left open, though, for...what? For Sherlock to finish it himself? 

"...you're mine?" he asked, spluttered, was more the word for it. A knee-jerk reaction, really, no thought given to what the reaction in turn might be. Clearing his throat, Sherlock sat up in the chair - obviously relaxing had put a damper on his usual logic or whatever filter he had kept in place when talking to the criminal. "Divine, I mean. That you're returning - simply divine. Can't wait." Not the best way to backtrack from a Freudian slip like that, and of that magnitude, but he could hope for the best. 

-

Given their respective occupations, Jim simply didn't like to make or exact promises.  Perhaps they wouldn't be able to keep them, and what then?  Anything could happen in two days, really, and he imagined Sherlock would finish the sentence as cautiously as Jim had begun it.  More and more, he mistrusted his own ability to maintain the distance, to pretend he wouldn't leap at the first opportunity to see Sherlock.  Even holding back the Turner truth had been a conscious struggle.  

So when Sherlock's half of the plan tumbled out so un-cautiously, Jim was caught entirely off-guard by it.  He was blinking, stopped dead where he stood near the window, and goddamn it, but he was grinning, all ennui erased.  Jim huffed a soft laugh at the sheer beauty of the moment, the muscles of his face so unaccustomed to such an expression that they nearly hurt.  Wasn't this the damnedest thing.

At Sherlock's attempt at recovery for what was apparently an accidentally voiced hope, Jim shook his head, as if Sherlock could see him - oh, no, you're not getting out of this one so easily. The surprising two words had robbed him of breath, and when Jim spoke again on the edge of a laugh, he might have said 'nice save' or simply agreed that, yes, it would be divine to see London and its consulting protector so soon.  But what fell from his smiling lips instead was soft, and not at all teasing: "I think you had it right the first time."

-

Above all things and everything that they bad been through and done, Jim still managed to surprise him at any given moment. He hadn't really expected his save to do just that, with someone as equally observant as he was, if not more so but it had been worth a try if to avoid any awkwardness or, worse, complete rejection. Not that he would think Jim capable of that, but Sherlock didn't particularly feel like finding out that night anyway. Better to have simply pawned it off as a slip of the tongue, mind being elsewhere.

The criminal accepting it, however, even confirming that the slip had been the correct answer caught him completely by surprise. The soft laugh disarmed him almost immediately, brought a fond smile to his lips and he found himself wanting to hear it more. The first warning sign, perhaps; for what, he wasn't exactly sure, but it was ever present in his mind that this might actually mean something. Something that didn't need to be explored at the moment, of course.

"Did I?" the detective asked teasingly, propping his legs up to once again relax in the chair. Maybe the filter being down had been to his advantage, if it had pleased Jim this much. "In that case, that's my final answer." Sherlock wasn't sure how much of the teasing was only that and how much he actually meant of it, though wasn't that the beauty of it? He got to tease and prod without repercussions, it seemed, even encouraged to do so. "I do hope you agree, but if not, I'm not sure you'd have much luck finding some other consulting detective ready and waiting for you."

-

How pleased and how sure of himself Sherlock sounded - 'final answer', when Jim had never really posed a question that required one.  All the usual unspoken ones that thickened and electrified the air between them, that made a quiet mystery of every glance - were those meant to have answers?  Jim was certainly grateful for the miles of air separating them at the moment, and that Sherlock couldn't see him rub the back of his hand blankly over his cheek, as if to wipe off the smile.  Oh, but if anyone were to look at James Moriarty right now, for the first time, they might think he was a damn sight happier of a person than he actually was.  And it was all Sherlock's fault.   
  
Jim had wandered away from the window, the restlessness a new and baffling sort, only to settle on the edge of the bed - a rock of sorts, the half-empty packet of lube speaking of solitary actions of minutes ago, yet the voice down the line warming - well, if not his heart, then his face, as Sherlock continued to speak.  Back to teasing, safer ground; yet it was only the tone that implied a certain lightness, wasn't it?  In the heat of the moment, Jim had said 'I'm all yours', and now even though they'd cooled down, Sherlock was agreeing with him.  Promises were breakable so he didn't think of it as one, couldn't, would never expect it from the other.  They were both merely speaking, in their own delicately coded way, a hell of a lot of truth.  
  
"Well, I don't suppose I would, considering you're the only one in the world," the Irishman replied, smile evident in the musicality of his tone.  The only consulting detective.  Of course.   
  
But also, the only one for Jim.  
  
He could hope Sherlock only heard the voiced meaning over the implied one, yet was less afraid now of risking understanding of both.  Still a risk, though, and Jim licked his lips, and didn't allow too much time for thought.  "Or at least the only one slacking off when they should be workiiing," Jim sang lightly.  A gentle reminder that Sherlock still had a case and daylight hours in which to solve it, but also to cut this rather momentous change in tactic to a minimum.  So much had already been said, with so little thought given to the consequences.

-

Well, that really should have been an expected answer. As much as Sherlock enjoyed driving that reminder into anyone in the proximity, whether they wished to hear it or not, the thought hadn't even crossed his mind that there wasn't anyone else to fill that role, just as there was no one else to fill the opposite role of the criminal. Sweet talk, perhaps, as a thinly veiled disguise of 'we're one of a kind' which was impractical and impersonal and he really should have said that instead, but wasn't regret a wasted emotion? It seemed as such, by their standards, though they did seem to be working on it now. They had come a long way from teasing touches and scathing looks on too of bar stools, at least, and that had to count for something.  
  
The reminder that he should be working was light enough so that he wouldn't become annoyed by it, or by being told what to do. Maybe intentional on Jim's end, or carefully calculated - that was the beauty of it, Sherlock never knowing, ever still a mystery. The man did have a point, though, and he couldn't see John staying out too much longer, especially when he realised that Mycroft was currently at Mum's and Dad's. Best to wrap the call up, especially on a good note as it was likely the last time they'd be speaking again until Jim arrived back. Certainly not the last of their texting, unless, of course, the business suddenly picked up, in which case Sherlock would leave him be to sort out matters. Work first, then personal life, even though that line had become so blurred during the past few weeks that it was laughable.  
  
Not for their sake of attempting to keep it clear, but when they practically talked each other off, it was a bit hard to deny that the once-clear line had become ever so skewed.  
  
"Slacking off? I could say the same for you," he teased back, almost sounding incredulous. Well, it had mainly been Sherlock's fault that this had started, but to take the blame wouldn't have been nearly as fun. Even so, the smile was still evident in his voice, even though it had dropped at the thought of having to hang up very soon. "Any last pointers you'd be willing to share?" the detective asked, not really expecting anything but figuring he should venture for it, since he had the man who had carried the cases out in the first place on the phone.

-

It wasn't that Sherlock was wrong, so much as that the circumstances were dissimilar in small ways; the time difference, for one, and that Jim knew for a fact he and Sebastian had been busy since morning until a late dinner.  All Sherlock had done was admit he'd nearly already solved the case and chosen to hide that fact from the relevant authorities, and indulge in a wank.  Though Jim was sure there'd been more to it than that, from separate sides it was rather amusing, and he'd so been in need of a laugh earlier.  For the past minute, however, he could hardly suppress them.   
  
His mind was clearly fogged by endorphins and sentiment, as it took Jim a moment longer than necessary, brow furrowing, at the mention of pointers - the first meaning that came to mind had to do with the bedroom.  When the likelier meaning dawned on the criminal, his eyebrows raised as he considered it.  Sure, he'd given clues before, but that's when they were on a tight and orderly schedule - he'd prefer Sherlock remain busy, if only for his own ability to do so.  It was easier this way.  And the request struck him as just a way of parting that wouldn't feel like parting.  Sherlock didn't really want pointers, and it went against Jim's stated principles of distance to provide them when it wasn't his idea initially to do so, and some principles had to be upheld no matter how lighthearted he may have felt.  So, no, dear Sherlock wasn't getting any clues.  The thing Jim could best provide was the same as it had ever been - mystery.   
  
He tsk'ed several times.  "Nice try, darling.  But you know better than that." With a smirk, Jim shifted his hold on the phone, and before he could talk himself out of the snap decision, pressed End. 

-

Sherlock probably should have anticipated as much, as Jim had already been so kind enough to provide him with not one but two presents back-to-back. If there was one thing that he enjoyed, it was being thought of, and being provided with mental stimulant whilst his preferred method of distraction was away was simply an added bonus. He should have known not too push to much, and really hadn't been expecting to be given any sort of additional information anyway, not that he especially needed it. Just more teasing, wanting to hear the lilt as long as possible until they inevitably had to part.  
  
He certainly hadn't been expecting the criminal to be the one to end the call first, and so abruptly. Blinking a few times, Sherlock only realised that the call was over only when the line began to beep at him, and he brought it down from his ear, just staring at the screen for a few moments. That was one way to keep him wanting more, the detective supposed. Turning his phone off, after noticing several increasingly disgruntled messages from John, the detective sank back down into his chair, his thoughts filling with a certain consultant who really had no business being there in the first place, his eyes slipping shut.  
  
He had barely noticed the door opening again, too absorbed in his own thoughts until his flatmate was standing directly over him, calling at him. With an annoyed sigh, Sherlock stood, striding back to the kitchen table to resume his earlier work. "Took you long enough. So sorry, must have forgotten to mention Mycroft's out of town, though I hope you enjoyed the walk." Turning to John with the newspaper in hand, the detective raised a brow, expecting the doctor to have some quip or rant ready to fire back at him. John simply mirrored his expression, standing there silently. Following his line of sight, Sherlock looked down, curious as to what had captured his attention so suddenly.  
  
It was with a flush of his cheeks that Sherlock hastily pulled the zipper of his trousers up, fastening the button with a flick of his hand.

-


	4. caught in a bad romance

**Three Days Later**

Well, well.  Hope the Harrison boys know not to drop the soap.  –JM

Why would they need to know that? –SH

Processing the text, Jim erupted into a small fit of incredulous laughter, regretting the amusement as soon as it turned into several coughs.  Damn.  But oh, Sherlock really was so oblivious at times.  It was more charming than the criminal could ever let on, or could let on without insulting his nemesis-turned-lover's certainty that he knew everything.  

Let's get arrested together someday and you can find out.  Congratulations on a job well done.  -JM

I'd rather not if it could be avoided, but alright. Thank you, it was quite stimulating. I eagerly await the next. –SH

Might be some time.  Actual paying clients to please, and all.  –JM

I understand. Just showing my enthusiasm. And you're aware I'll be paying it back anyway. –SH

Rather a twisted way of looking at it.  –JM

Really? Why's that? –SH

Unless you meant you'd be handing over a few of the good guys, for my entertainment?  Perhaps I misunderstood.  –JM

Would you find entertainment in that? Hardly seems satisfying if I just give them to you. At least you give me work. –SH

I was simply referring to returning the favour. I'm sure you know which one. –SH

I do know.  Merely taken aback by your referring to it as payment of some kind.  –JM

Ah. Didn't mean it like that. –SH

Then how did you mean it?  -JM

Showing my appreciation? Is that bad? –SH

Oh, no.  Your appreciation is most welcome, but for when it sounds as if you're by the roadside holding a sign that says Will Give Head For A Good Case.  –JM

Right, well, I've never done that before and I don't intend to start now. I suppose that makes you a special case. –SH

Work beckons.  We'll talk soon.  –JM

Didn't seem to hinder you from texting first. And how is dear work going? –SH

Tying up some loose ends.  Nothing stimulating, as you put it.  –JM

Almost done soon, then? Purely curious, that's all. –SH

Hard to say with certainty.  Working from home tends to blur the line.  –JM

Then I'll leave you to it. Hate to be a distraction. –SH

[several hours later, 1:16 am] If I offended, apologies.  Not feeling so hot.  –JM

I can take it. I'm a grown man. –SH

What's wrong? –SH

Nasty cold.  Slight fever.  Travel gets to me on occasion.  –JM

Oh? Got any medicine? –SH

Well in stock, yes.  It's all just unpleasant.  And apparently has some effect on my mood, fancy that.  –JM

Shame, but understandable. I do wish you a full recovery. I've heard soup helps. –SH

It is a shame, yes.  For more than one reason.  –JM

Why else? Need to stay longer? -SH

Oh, I'm back in London.  Just not sure when I'll be in perfect health again.  –JM

The news that Jim was already back in London make Sherlock raise both eyebrows at his phone, pleased at the fact but not that he had apparently fallen ill. He had no reason to lie about that, so that thought didn't occur to him; just the thought that maybe he should bring him something to help - soup, medicine, anything.

He effectively dismissed it, telling himself that they weren't in fact a couple.

Oh. Good to hear. –SH

Not the second part, of course. What's the phrase - get well soon. –SH

Jim smiled faintly at his phone, not sure whether it required a reply.  Something about Sherlock's earlier words still bothered him, but he didn't have the energy for a battle, even via text.  Yes, he'd been harsh, and bothered to apologize, but Sherlock had to understand.  If these were all just little bargaining chips, imbalanced trade-offs... He shook his head and sighed. 

It could have just been the cold making him ornery.  Wasn't even sure where he'd gotten it - hadn't shaken too many hands during meetings, but maybe the close confines of the plane.  Either way, it was bothersome and tiring, and keeping him from full capacity with work.  A lot could be done from the bed with phone and laptop, but he'd napped intermittently, and even though it was one in the morning now, Jim was certain he'd be awake awhile, simply thinking.  Probably about Sherlock, more than anything else.  Whether good thoughts or bad would reign supreme, was impossible to know - changeable.

Sherlock was bound to be awake awhile, too, as per habit, but god forbid either say the wrong thing.  Or the right thing, if it was too distracting, too telling, too real.  Proceed with caution.  That they'd forgotten to do so while speaking the other night was...well...

Right now, it was all too much, and Jim wrote back simply,

Dream sweet.  x  -JM

-

Following the arrest of the Harrison men, and the lofty payment he'd gotten from it, Sherlock normally would have been on top of the world with all of the recognition that came from a case connected with a high-profile place such as the Palace, however short the feeling may have lasted. He simply couldn't bring himself to be, though, not after the bout of misunderstanding with Jim followed by the knowledge that he was under the weather. Couldn't text him out of boredom again, lest they have another dispute, and at least he was aware now that a sick Jim was one that he should perhaps avoid. Felt sorry for him, of course, but not enough to risk hearing anything like 'will give head for a good case' again.

Slumped in his chair with John perched in his own across from him, he huffed an annoyed sigh, running through everything he could possibly do to get the criminal off of his mind. A daunting task even for himself, who could block out and forget things on command, though he could still be productive through it. Spotting the newspaper that he'd saved with the cases, he reached for it, skipping past the front page and flipping to the one featuring Turner, remembering what Jim had said during the phone call. He may have joked about not wanting anything else distracting Sherlock, though if that was the case, he would have offed him a while ago. Extremist sensibilities and interests...plenty of others had those, though they weren't connected with him. Turner was special, then. Reading over the title once more, his eyes quickly skimmed over it, going down to the article. The title caught his attention once more, and with narrowed eyes he read it again. _South Harrow Explosion Rattles Locals, One Culprit Killed_... With a sudden intake of breath, the detective tossed the article aside, springing up off the chair and reaching for his coat, not bothering to say a word to John as he left. Hopefully the doctor would have the good sense not to follow.

Hours later, well into the early morning, Sherlock returned, falling into his chair again, glad that his flatmate had gone to sleep. If he were to have seen the smile on his face, he wouldn't have shut up about it. After a few rousing discussions with members of his network and visits to some old haunts, he had a good idea of why Jim had, in fact, blown Turner up. Numerous accounts of the late dealer asking about Sherlock, where he lived now, if he was still using. Some others reported that he had mentioned discussing which gun would cause the most damage. He'd had to use a few forceful tactics to get the information, though it had been worth it, considering Jim would never have told him willingly, and for good reason. They weren't allowed to show sentiment, but this was more than that. It was being protective, whether because Jim wanted to help or harm Sherlock himself. Couldn't very well have competition for that. As selfish as it may have seemed, it meant the world to the detective and considering he hardly batted an eye at any shows of affection, the fact that he was reaching for the violin at nearly four in the morning said something.

Setting his phone to record, he took the bow to the strings, letting whatever sounds struck him play through the violin as he played softly, carefully. John knew not to disturb him when playing, even at the late hour. His eyelids were heavy as he continued, thoughts filled with nothing but the criminal himself, sudden crescendos followed by immediate pizzicatos back down to a soft, pleasing tune and increasing in tempo again, characterised by the man's unpredictable ways, grandiose and then not. It was, if anything, an aromantic love song. Sherlock brought the violin down after a few minutes, standing there as the last note resonated throughout the room. Putting the instrument away, he bolted to his bedroom, taking his phone with him, opening the drawer containing his sock index and retrieving the card he'd put there against his better judgment what seemed like forever ago. Typing in the e-mail address directly under the phone number, he attached the recording, sending it off. He waited a moment before texting the criminal, just to make sure that it went through.

Sent a gift. Hope you're doing better. -SH

-

It was strange that the power should go out on a cruise ship. The revelers above deck raised a ruckus about it, easily heard since the dance music no longer blared from the giant speakers. It should be fixed soon, it didn’t matter; Jim was more concerned with finding the door, the way out. Were his phone not in the room he’d accidentally locked himself out of, its light would have been useful. He ran his fingers along the wall, searching for telltale frames and knobs in the darkness, but the narrow hallway seemed to have no exit. The boat lurched violently, the force sending him sprawling into the wall, hard enough to bruise his arm and hip. Mild panic. Problems. Pirates? He didn’t know anything, but for that the power outage was no accident.

The hall wound like a labyrinth, and seemed never-ending. A turn one way at least brought him to a door, but this was locked, too. As was the next, and the next. “Got you now,” he heard a voice he couldn’t place, from a direction he couldn’t guess at. Near-silent shoes on the carpeting, and then hands grabbing at him, securing him, no time to shout before one clamped over his mouth. Swift and silent, unknown persons carried the struggling mastermind down the halls as if they knew them well. Planned. Not modern-day and savage pirates, no, they’d come specifically for him.

He couldn’t speak to ask or reason, so Jim kicked and fought as best as he was able against the unseen bodies. The questions raised by the oblivious socialites and tourists on board reached his ears, taunting him with their lack of awareness of what was becoming an increasingly desperate situation. The men who held him grumbled amongst themselves before shouldering open a door, and his eyes caught points of light, the stars more brilliant for the lack of competition. He squirmed and lashed out harder, but his legs and arms were well-held, until they weren’t. Until the rough palm left his mouth and he could shout, until he was being thrown over, freefalling towards the choppy waters below.

The waves swallowed him, cold and consuming. Light from above the surface, the boat’s power back on, the revived liveliness and bass giving the water a pulse, or was that merely his own? He thrashed more than swam upwards, freezing water finding its way into his throat and making the terror that much worse. Reach the surface, reach the light. Almost there! He was desperate for that first lungful of air, and when he made it, choking and gasping to the surface, it wasn’t the ocean’s waves he heard but the gentle lapping of stiller waters. Tasted chlorine on his tongue as he grasped the pool’s edge, gagged out water. No…

He could hardly see, yet registered the familiar form regardless, a tall and back-lit blur of coat and curls. Not offering a hand, merely staring down, and smiling; Jim couldn’t speak to evince surprise or pain. His entire existence relied on gagging and coughing the water out, his eyes squeezing shut. When they opened blearily, he saw Sherlock’s gleaming shoes, and too near to them and his own clutching hand, the damned death-vest. The digital readout blinking:

 

**0:04**

 

**0:03**

 

The same words, but in that rich, self-satisfied voice he knew so well. “Got you now.”

 

**0:02**

Jim jolted awake so violently that he surged upwards with an unintelligible cry, chest heaving as he forced air back into it. He veritably gulped it down, arms shaking, and it took only a moment to register the truth of things – bedroom, day, alive - just a godawful nightmare. The knowledge didn’t take the burn out of his chest or wide eyes, or immediately dispel the lingering panic. His heart thundered in his own ears, hands rising to cover his open mouth and leaking eyes. Five or ten entire minutes must have passed this way; he stayed put, trembling, until little by little doom felt less likely, the mere act of breathing less painful.

The occasional nightmare wasn’t so strange, but it hadn’t been since adolescence since he’d woken from one like _that._ The lack of his control over his own subconscious mind was suddenly horrifying, even as Jim eased into a somewhat more composed state. And he could analyze it, but good god, why would he want to do that? The dream contained no symbols that weren’t entirely too obvious. Nothing that warranted prolonged thought – the sooner forgotten, the better, actually. He simply decided to never take that mix of cold and sinus medicines again, if this was a side effect. But deciding did little to clear the air of the remaining anxiety. He considered going back to sleep, but no, terrible idea, what if it happened again? Not that it had been the first dream in which Sherlock had carried out his imminent demise. But never, ever with such a look on his face.

“Ridiculous,” Jim muttered, pushing up off the bed only to pause as a potential sneeze tickled his nose, and then passed. Aggravating, this Being Ill business. Plucking phone from the charger, he checked the missed calls and messages. One call from a phone code he recognized as being in Calabria – what where the ‘Ndrangheta up to this time? He’d have to find out. Another from a blocked number – potential clients did that sometimes, god only knew why, and as no voicemail was left they’d have to try again in future. One text from a lower member of the Adams syndicate, that said only ‘Ring me ASAP.’ Well, that one could certainly wait. A text from Moran inquiring as to this weekend’s scheduled job, and one from an associate at the Royal Observatory, regarding time set aside for a sliver of R&R inside the onion dome. These were shifted just out of the forefront of his mind at the sight of one from Sherlock. Jim’s brow furrowed slightly as he read it. A gift? After that dream he wasn’t so sure he wanted to know. But that was silly.

As was the thought that Sherlock would have sent him an actual, physical present – but this realization didn’t catch up with him until he was halfway to the front door. Jim shook his head at himself, laughing softly. Of course Sherlock couldn’t have done that, he didn’t know the address. …Did he? That would be surprising, to say the least, but not impossible. Finding the possibility amusing in its own way, he made his way to the door and unlocked it, peering down first then into the mailbox. Nothing. Well, that was truly for the best.

Looking into it should, could wait. But after having set up the gifts for Sherlock, Jim didn’t really want it to. Presents that weren’t entirely self-serving for the giver were rare to him. Checking the text again and seeing no attachment, Jim puzzled over it for only a moment before selecting the email app. Sherlock might have been able to trace something from the Anonymous comments on his blog, but that was ever so long ago, and unlikely to boot. Still, Jim checked. It took some scrolling, for he had countless addresses, attached by a complicated forwarding system that went through proxies in several countries before they reached him. Apparently it was wise to have maintained dynamicasteroid.com on his server, because that was whence the email came – this drew another small laugh from Jim, and shaking off the strange dream, every bit helped. Kept the tired clubber’s business card, then. _Most_ amusing.

He tapped open the No Subject email, only to discover no text, either, but an audio attachment. The criminal’s brain ran rampant for a moment – considering their last immodest conversation…A tiny spike of adrenaline and anticipation fueled his curiosity, and Jim strode to the leather sofa as it downloaded. If it _did_ happen to be along those lines it should definitely wait, but curiosity won out. Finally that damn sneeze caught up with him, but then he had the file, and though he’d be loath to admit aloud that something so small should make the difference, the morning felt a little less miserable overall. Wasn’t distraction grand?

No matter what form the distraction would take, Sherlock had successfully surprised him with the mere existence of it. Jim pressed Play and brought the phone to his ear, enjoying that last moment of not knowing what to expect, before a single test scratch of bow against strings clued him in. The nightmare had left in its wake a default expression of startled melancholia, but at the first few notes his features softened. Unless he was more mentally groggy than he felt, the tune was an unfamiliar one, increasing likelihood that it wasn’t coming just from Sherlock’s hands, but his very spirit.  

What in the hell had Jim done to deserve that?

Oh, right – heists and murder.

Well, it was nice to be appreciated.

To all appearances the Irishman was half-melted into the sofa, but his mind was hard at work, eyes shifting rapidly as if reading invisible sheet music as each note hit him. Sometimes hit, sometimes caressed. Some lingered, some flitted away so quickly. All blended together reasonably, mellifluously, and had his rapt attention in common. Jim didn’t listen long before leaving the sofa, plugging the phone into speakers built into the wall, and restarting the file. Sherlock’s playing filled the room as loudly as if he were in it, and Jim remained just near a speaker, taking in and taking apart the sounds. If he’d had to guess, it was likely impromptu, this pretty and… _changeable_ little piece.

Floating, rather than drowning. The detective was no longer a towering, cool glass of malice as he’d been in the dream – no, the mind’s eye’s most recent picture was altogether softer, genius in need of an audience. Maybe composing with his eyes closed, as Jim’s were now. Maybe smiling, too.

When it finished, Jim thought for a moment, and for once didn’t second-guess the sentiment.

Trust you to figure out what to give the man who has everything. –JM

Riches? Common. The world at his fingertips? Boring – no challenge. But Sherlock Holmes, in little pieces…more fascinating than he’d care to admit, and would suffice until Jim had the whole.

He sent the implied thanks Sherlock’s way and, still smiling, pressed Play again.

-


	5. I want your love, I don't wanna be friends.

Following his composition for Jim, which he had been nervous about sending in and of itself, Sherlock had immediately passed out afterwards, right in his not-suitable-for-sleep chair after practicing more on the violin for an hour or so. It had been a few weeks since he'd played, and it was nice to get into a rhythm again. A stupid idea in and of itself, considering he was unmovable and out of commission until the following late afternoon and once finally out of his slumber, it was barely possible to move his neck and there was a measurable ache in his back each time he shifted. With a groan, the detective vaguely noticed that tea had been set out for him, most likely going cold hours ago. Sweet of John to continually think about him, but when his efforts went unappreciated, perhaps he'd get the hint. Reaching for his phone, he blearily stared at the screen, texting conversation with Jim still open from last night. Mouth quirking up in a smile at the response, it was evident that the criminal had indeed received and listen to the gift, and wasn't that such a nice way to say his thanks. Not directly saying it, but the detective got the message anyway and typed back almost automatically.

You have everything except good health, it seems. It's not medicine but music is good for the soul. -SH

Never thought you'd allude to having one of those.  –JM

You're right. Good for the mind, then. I've definitely got one of those. –SH

You've the other.  I heard it.  –JM

Did you? Good to know. Useless, but good to know. I assume you enjoyed it, then. –SH

Very relaxing.  Feeling a mite better already.  Likely still contagious, unfortunately.  –JM

Can't help these things. An unfortunate time to strike, but oh well. –SH

Won't be too bored without me?  -JM

I did just fine while you were away, didn't I? –SH

Jim was poring over a map of Italy spread out before him on the kitchen counter.  It was massive, peppered with portions of tiny letters, a code only he could understand.  He would glance at it, jot something in the same code down in the notebook beside it, and return his gaze to the map.  Oh, he wasn't running all of Italy from it or anything, that was the mafia's job.  But he liked to be particularly careful as arms deals were involved, as that was semi-serious business - couldn't trust digital, preferred something that could be burned.  

But this map had been with him for a long time, territories mapped out by families and their specialties; along the edge ran more writing, a few predictions Jim had made for his own amusement.  As some of them had played out as expected, the rest likely would, as well.  His phone sounded but he ignored it a few minutes longer, lost in thought.  Would have to get in touch with an associate in Naples...he noted this down, and paused to sip at tea, annoyingly near lukewarm at this point but still tasted strong.  Jim reached for the phone, and couldn't help a small chuckle.  If Sherlock meant the many texts, the salacious chat, and a case handcrafted by the same man who'd participated in both, well, sure, Sherlock had done just fine.  Smaller cases, not his handiwork, would surely appear for Sherlock's amusement, wouldn't they?  Jim briefly considered hacking Sherlock's inbox and perusing the amount of Unreads, in case the words 'I'm bored' should soon flit his way, but the criminal was only truly invasive when he was bored, too. Which he almost was - this project wasn't so much a challenge as a small favour, something he'd agreed to think over while feeling too poorly for local projects, anything that would require his red-nosed and stuffy-headed person.  Working over the map felt like nothing more than a glorified game of Risk.

He allowed Sherlock's text to go unanswered for now.  The silence would be its own smirking reply, and if Sherlock truly did have other amusements, he was bound not to mind.  Rather clingy as of late, the both of them, compared to former tactics, but neither exactly discouraged it.  Jim doubted wholeheartedly that they could return to the old way, and that was almost frightening in its implications.  Progress, development, results - of a sort he'd never really expected, and fought occasionally to keep a controlling hand over.  

It was nearing midnight when Jim set the day's various tasks aside, and after some debate, listened again to the recording Sherlock had sent.  It brought a private little smile to his lips, having another piece of the detective that he could enjoy whenever he wished, without Sherlock's presence or knowledge.  This time it struck him differently - still as beautiful, but brought images unbidden of Sherlock's long fingers on the instrument's neck, and putting a stop to the playing by unconventional, distracting means.  Must have been feeling better overall, if that was the track on which his mind was embarking.  Whether he'd switch tracks or indulge it would depend somewhat on Sherlock, even though it didn't have to.  Imagination, laptop, a hot shower, any might suit the purpose.  But it was simply more fun with Sherlock involved.  If the detective was busy with anything else, that would turn fun to funny in its own perverse way, and Jim saw no reason to stop himself from gauging the potential.  But he couldn't just ask what Sherlock was up to, if anything.  Too curious, too needy for attention, not remotely compelling.  Jim's lips pursed in thought before he tapped out what amounted to truth; slightly exaggerated, as it would take some time before coming to full, untouchable, untraceable fruition.

Work was fun today.  Lives will be lost.  -JM

That does sound fun. Still able to cause chaos while sick? I'm impressed. –SH

You would be.  –JM

Think you know me so well already? –SH

Anyway. Colds don't normally last this long, do they? –SH

I think I do.  And aiming for one full day without a sneeze, to be certain.  Getting impatient, are we?  -JM

No. Just curious. I've got all the time in the world to wait, I can certainly last out a cold. –SH

My, but that's optimistic, to take time for granted.  Live every day like it's your last, I say.  –JM

I do. There's simply better ways to spend my days now, that's all. –SH

Better than...?  -JM

Better than shooting the wall, for one. Not exactly how I'd like to spend my last days. –SH

Pity - you look so good holding a gun.  –JM

Think so? That's not one of your - what are they called...kinks, is it? –SH

Wouldn't you like to know.  –JM

Oh, I so would. –SH

Hm.  Tit for tat, darling - I'm not inclined to share information without receiving some of equal value in return.  –JM

Such as? –SH

Nothing too confidential.  Nothing we couldn't live with someone else knowing.  There are kinks and then there are Kinks, but I don't suppose you'd know much about the difference. I do already know you wouldn't have minded a bit of exhibitionism, but that's based as much on your Palace ensemble as the symphony.  You're shameless, aren't you?  -JM

Neither confirming nor denying that. If you think you know me so well, go on, then. –SH

Oh, I wouldn't presume.  Far more fun to discover these sorts of things in person, anyhow.  Simple to deduce when someone's entirely too interested in something they shouldn't be.  Perhaps experiments are in order.  You do love experiments.  –JM

You do have a point. No sense in arguing that, then. Just be ready and willing, I suppose. –SH

I already am.  And interested in conducting a few experiments of my own.  –JM

Can't say I disagree. Best saved for in person, hm? –SH

Indeed, though thoughts of them may be considered at length.  –JM

Care to disclose one? –SH

Finding out how long it would take to distract you from your microscope.  Would kissing your neck work, or would I have to be under the table?  I can be very persistent.  –JM

Sounds as if you've given this some careful thought. I would tell you but I don't know the answer myself. –SH

Wondered since that day at Bart's, actually.  But Miss Molly and the good doctor would have been so appalled.  –JM

Work quickly, don't you? Though she would have gotten the point much faster if she'd seen you in action rather than me having to explain it to her. Would have been fun. -SH 

See?  Exhibitionist.  –JM

Not so much that as the thrill that it would cause. –SH

Like you'd stay quiet, or that I'd want you to.  –JM

In public, you mean? I've got a surprising amount of self-control, as you know firsthand. -SH

Losing it would make you blush, and I'd love to see that.  –JM

Don't be silly, you've seen that before. I've yet to see it from you, though. –SH

Because I don't.  –JM

Is that so? Sounds like a challenge. –SH

Welcome to try.  –JM

By all means, do put up a fight. I like a challenge. –SH

Lucky me.  Soon enough.  Anticipation is so sweet.  –JM

I'll leave you to getting well, then. Do let me know when you've kicked the nasty bug. –SH

Be prepared for a challenge.  Anything less than your best game would be so disappointing.  x –JM


	6. want your drama, the touch of your hand

**Two days later.**

It had been early that morning when Sherlock first received the call from his most favourite and least annoying detective inspector about a simple enough murder. Those had been his words, at least, and he had first questioned why he was being called in if it was in fact so simple. Well, he had first made some insulting quips regarding the competence of both Lestrade himself and the Yard, saying that if it was that easy then even Philip should be able to solve it himself. He had been clarified, though, that it was simple but there weren't many clues left behind. None, even, simply a corpse and questions unanswered regarding it. Sherlock had reluctantly accepted, grumbling to a non-existent John about how they couldn't solve their way out of a paper bag and then laughed about it enough for the both of them. Strange, though not, how much more comfortable he was whilst John was out, visiting his hipster or sister or something similar, he couldn't be bothered to pay attention, especially as he hadn't been invited. Though that was probably on purpose, as the doctor had inevitably told Harry about his first deductions about her. Drinking problems, marital problems - certainly not someone he wished to be around anyway, so no real loss there. He'd been glad that he was able to get out of the flat in five minutes, rather than the usual hour it took with his flatmate getting ready. John hadn't been gone for a day and already things were looking up.

The detective had decided to forgo wearing his coat and scarf, the early morning London weather not being too bristling enough to wear the combination, and he moved much easier without them anyway. Not that the case especially required doing so, especially since he had only been given rubber gloves which he had promptly discarded before moving to examine the corpse, brushing off comments and questions about where John was. Nothing particularly striking about this one, slim build and fair hair, attractive, if Sherlock was being honest about it. Might have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The detective carried out his usual routine, checking the tinier crevices that had been glossed over in the initial examination and poking around in any pockets, carefully, of course. He may not have respected the police force but he wasn't interested in making their job any more difficult either.

His fingers brushed against something soft and they closed around it, drawing it out of the trouser pocket with piqued curiosity. A shred of paper, it seemed, ripped lengthwise and with something obviously written on it - printed, it looked like. Reaching into the pocket again, he found more strips and figured it was safe to assume that the papers were all from the same page that had been ripped rather than a series. Pulling out the rest, he quickly looked around for any stray officers before shoving the same strips into his own pockets, moving to the other side of the body to check the other pocket, finding a few more but not nearly as much as the other pocket held. That had to be a fairly major clue, Sherlock mused, and one that he could do more with than surrendering them to Lestrade. Making a promise that he would text later with any leads on the case, the detective quickly made his way back to his flat, feeling for the strips in his pockets with a tiny smile on his face.

The pieces had just finished being laid out across the floor with Sherlock leaning over them when his phone went off. At an earlier point, the immediate expectation would be John, though he and the doctor didn't text nearly as much as he and the currently still under-the-weather consulting criminal and so the more likely answer was that it was, in fact, Jim. A quick check from his phone confirmed that it was indeed and he collapsed on his back next to the strips, deciding that texting from the floor wasn't as uncomfortable as it seemed. 

And lo, yesterday passed without a sneeze.  –JM

Sure that means you're no longer contagious? –SH

For the most part, but wariness could be understandable.  –JM

Just making sure. The last thing I want to catch is the sniffles. –SH

Well, we could attempt to avoid close contact.  –JM

That would only work in theory. You and I both know we aren't the most successful in avoiding close contact. –SH

So long as you're not losing your nerve.  –JM

I believe it's safe to say that you don't need to worry about that. –SH

I'd say we could go out again, but even that works better in theory.  Best off sequestered from the world at large, though that could be said of either of us individually.  Thoughts?  -JM

Too much adventure for you the last time? Fine, though. You've got a point. –SH

I wonder if there is such a thing as too much adventure.  –JM

[With you? Never. Deleted] Should stick to adventure that is legal next time. –SH  
If there is a next time. –SH

Why wouldn't there be?  -JM

Sequestered off from the world implies not going out, does it not? –SH

Shouldn't and Can't are two different things, fortunately.  –JM

I see. And which would you rather go by? –SH

Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.  You're missed, is the point.  –JM

Really? I hadn't noticed. I would say the same for you, at any other time than this, but got something going on at the moment. –SH

Oh?  Am I distracting from work?  -JM

Well, yes. Not that that's a bad thing. –SH

Experiment or case?  -JM

Case. Only a five, however. –SH

'Case.'  It was precisely the confirmation the consulting criminal had been seeking, and it brought a smirk to his lips.  He'd known before asking, but wanted to make certain that the shot in the dark of a completely sleepless night had hit its mark.  Of course, it may not have; he needed details.  

Sounds disappointing.  -JM

The crime was, yes. Found something interesting on the corpse, though. Piqued my curiosity. –SH

The sooner solved, the sooner sequestered.  Have fun.  –JM

Not exactly a love song, but it was enough motivation for Sherlock to want to finish the case as quickly as possible. That it had occurred so soon after Jim had recovered was a bit of a coincidence, though it would have been a far stretch to think that he would be feeling well enough to plan something.

I soon will be. You too. -SH

Even on a case, Jim still managed to divert his attention, if only for a few thought-provoking texts. The man's last message seemed to be a good stopping point and Sherlock so wanted to get on with putting the pieces together, literally. As much as he enjoyed chatting, it wasn't as if Jim had never ignored him for a few hours as well. Such was their liaison - not a good or bad thing, simply a fact to be dealt with and reciprocated when need be. Rolling back over and kneeling again, he studied the scraps for a moment before reaching for the first piece to be rearranged, marking the starting time to be 12:18 PM.

Hours later and with most of the mysterious paper unscrambled, Sherlock ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, not having expected the process to go on as long as it did and be as tedious as it was. The work had been worth it, though, revealing the shredded paper to be a reply to a Craigslist ad asking for a male escort, and he'd rolled his eyes when he had discovered it. Apparently it wasn't common sense to not do that sort of thing - Sherlock thrived on danger, but smart danger; nothing that would promise a trip straight to the grave the minute he showed up. He only had a few strips of paper left though the gist of the ad was clear, along with a handwritten address written on the bottom of it. It had taken an entire roll of sellotape and the detective carefully plucked it from the floor, fetching a new piece of paper and copying the address onto it, stuffing it into his pocket, phone in the other one and John's Browning L9A1 in hand before bounding out of the flat. Alright, so he was going to this place to most likely meet the killer, but in his defense, he was changeable in his own right.

Hailing a taxi, Sherlock could only imagine who he would find at the address. There had been numerous "Craigslist killers', as they were so specifically called, along with a number of copycats after the media coverage of the original Markoff, people wanting their respective spotlight and thinking they had an easy way to do it. The place wasn't too far away, and it appeared to be in a neighbourhood. Odd, as he had been expecting a warehouse or hotel or some other equally seedy location. He quickly paid the cabbie and climbed out, looking the flat up and down, it also appearing normal enough - lived in, even. The lock was a barrier, and with a quick look around and a nearby nail being just convenient enough, he picked and prodded at it enough until the eventual click sounded, a smirk passing across his face as it did so. 

Slipping inside the flat as quietly as possible, the detective locked the door behind him, the possibility of any stray visitors being less than significant but paranoia winning out anyway. Raising the gun, he peeked into the first available room, finding no one inside and nothing out of the ordinary - a simple enough and decorated bedroom. The second one proved to be a bathroom, currently unoccupied, as the door was unlocked. The living room was the next logical course of action and he held his breath as he slowly approached it, lifting the gun as he saw a figure on the sofa, lounging, it seemed. With a sudden intake of breath, he immediately lowered the pistol, not having expected to find Jim there, quite comfortably, it seemed. Sherlock stood there for a full minute before finally addressing the man, attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible. "So. Male escort, hm?"

-

Jim thought ‘soon’ was a pretty word. So promising, and occasionally reassured one that the best things in life were worth a little bit of trouble. The thought, time and resources expended for Sherlock were ones Jim somehow never regretted. Perhaps because he was dealing with one person, rather than organizations and groups with their own hierarchy, and that would turn on him if only they could find a way to do so that wasn’t strictly suicidal. Not that he was certain yet that Sherlock wouldn’t do the same, but it was just simpler overall than finding a lasting distraction in making trouble for anyone less demonstrably appreciative. Making it for Sherlock was always a pleasure, and this time had not remotely been a strain. Some endeavors took weeks to plan, research, triple-check and execute; for something to have taken only one night of (frankly, less than careful) thought – why, that was downright relaxing. It didn’t much matter to Jim that it had kept him from sleeping, or that he’d aggravated a member of the Adams syndicate by making them wait longer for his attention. How could he care, and how could he have slept? All roads led to Sherlock and it was strangely inspiring.

It had been morning when the consulting criminal had received final confirmation of bad deeds done well, and spent arguably too much time in front of his closet. “Worse than a teenage girl,” he murmured slowly after too long spent in blank-faced indecision, berating himself for vanity, obsession, or both. He finally terminated the bout of irresolution by reminding himself that he may not see Sherlock today, after all. But he had skewed the odds rather a lot in his favor, and though uncertainty was thrilling to a point, Jim wasn’t going to take the chance when it came to clothes. Especially when lack of sleep made him feel less sharp overall, and certain the circles beneath his eyes were a smidgen darker and deeper than usual. It was a comfort to think that just because Sherlock noticed such details, didn’t mean he cared about them. With their brains wrapped around each other so, what did tiny imperfections matter? Sherlock had none, in Jim’s eyes – perhaps in this discrepancy lay the cause for concern that wasn’t one.

He settled on a charcoal Ermenegildo Zegna suit, and a shirt the same dark, reddish maroon as those sheets in Shanghai that he’d have so loved to see against Sherlock’s skin. He’d almost decided against a tie, but the grey one with a barbed wire design trailing down it caught his eye, and had Sherlock not been previously complimentary about Westwood? At the very least, Jim liked the symbolism of it. Basic black for socks and underwear – these took less deliberation, as despite all their talk, Jim didn’t really plan on either being seen. Today, he reasoned, was not about that.

 _Probably._ Well, who knew. Such resolutions had a way of slipping away from him when Sherlock was involved, but it was plain they both could use a lesson in self-control. It was wise to be prepared regardless, so after dressing, Jim made sure his pockets contained the necessities, unable to help smirking as he added them. Mint gum. Earbuds blasting Moving Units. These helped keep him awake, alert and anticipating as he hailed a taxi, not wishing for any vehicle of his own to be spotted in Sherlock’s vicinity. And thus he made his unhurried and secretly merry way to the recently rented flat in Stoke Newington.

It was furnished with someone else’s décor and personal touches; comfortable but insignificant details that faded as Jim stopped his curious meandering around, and the pulling closed of curtains. Worldly details, boring. He turned his attention back to work. Had to love technology – anywhere could be an office. But in truth, the world’s foremost consulting criminal didn’t work all that hard. Nothing beyond answering emails of some importance, letting the carefully coded sentences and very subtle threats entertain him before he decided it was time to check in on Sherlock. There was something terribly fun about knowing the answer to every question before Sherlock answered them, except for the pause, the moment of doubt and panic given the criminal when ‘next time’ was brought into question. Thank every god Jim didn’t exactly believe in, that the answer to that one came quickly. Next time was actually imminent, and how surprised the detective would be! Combined with the mild delirium of sleeplessness, this fact conspired to make Jim almost giddy. Surely the simple fact of seeing Sherlock wasn’t responsible for this. No, no. Nothing so ordinary as _that._

Bones felt hollow, brain felt slow, but so pleasantly - suspense and superiority keeping Jim from a little nap. He would have liked music to fill the silent midday room, but headphones might make him miss the look on Sherlock’s face, and that was unacceptable. So he reclined on a stranger’s sofa, just a tad incongruous upon it in so fine a suit, and allowed his mind to drift. It might have been hours or minutes before the first little scratches reached his ears, sounds of Sherlock attempting to get in. A frisson of excitement traveled up Jim’s spine, but showed outwardly only in the curve of a tight smile. His hands were folded neatly over his abdomen, and though Jim might have resettled in a more intimidating pose, let Sherlock see him this way: relaxed, unperturbed. Seemingly, anyway. At the first footfalls, his heart started pounding, so much that he lifted his head from the armest a little to glare at it, a wordless command to the party in his ribcage to quiet the hell down.

Of course, it didn’t listen. Of course, he felt every thrum in time with Sherlock’s cautious steps. Approaching, nearer and nearer, just listen for it…

Jim’s gaze slid sideways, catching the exact moment Sherlock’s tall frame filled the doorway. It only occurred to him at the sight of the gun that he’d come unarmed in any way – backup was only a phone call away, but hopefully unnecessary. Jim’s smile broadened just a little, nostalgia flaring up at the sight of the other so seemingly confident behind his live-in one’s borrowed firearm. Did he have a gun kink? Sherlock had been curious; Jim wasn’t about to deny it, exactly. Ah, but it lay safe now against Sherlock’s thigh, making the criminal raise his eyebrows, and lick his lips. Sherlock didn’t think him dangerous enough to keep a gun on? Oh, heavens, they really had done some damage in the past few weeks, of the loveliest and most worrisome kind. The detective would do better to pull out his phone, really, and take a picture. For here it was, incontrovertible proof! James Patrick C. Moriarty sitting pretty at an address attached to a murder – what would Sherlock do?

The silence was as rich and thick as the most indulgent imaginable dessert – Sherlock would never admit to surprise, but here it was, plain as day, leaving him speechless. Jim never took his dark, placid eyes off the other, all expectation until Sherlock finally spoke.

They were so good at this, each of them. But even better together.

Jim’s shoulders shifted against the cushions in a shrug. “It’s a dangerous lifestyle,” he commented offhandedly. But was it symbolism, too, after the petty accusation he’d made against Sherlock’s rather callous ideas of ‘payment’? Perhaps, perhaps. “But, in my experience,” he declared, uncrossing his legs at the ankle against the other armrest only to cross them again, “Those are the best kind.”

-

In hindsight, Sherlock really should have suspected that the entire scenario seemed a bit too good to be true. A true murder, that is, with a stupid enough killer to leave the address of their residency in their victim's pocket. It would be stupid for a killer to do, yes, but it was ingenious, Jim doing it. He'd been so caught up in putting together those damn pieces of paper, though coming across the criminal like this, hadn't it all been worth it? With the man practically laid out for him, wrapped up in...well, Sherlock had to get a bit closer to properly say. He didn't particularly want the gun to be seen as a threat, a stark opposite from his mindset just minutes ago, first entering the flat, though hopefully Jim understood and so approached him, placing the gun on the table before moving to stand behind the sofa, leaning over it just so. "So I've gathered," he responded lowly, reaching a teasing hand down to run an appreciative hand over the maroon shirt, a lurid smile coming across his face at the symbolism of it. A more practical Freudian slip, it seemed, or maybe just a way of showing how much Jim did truly think of him. So, a criminal wrapped up in a delightfully fitting maroon shirt and lovely barbed wire tie. More symbolism, it seemed, or maybe just a clue - his attempt to still keep control over the situation, when what he truly wanted was lying just beneath it.

The detective retracted his hand almost as soon as he'd teasingly dragged it down the man's chest, practically springing away from the sofa. Clasping his hands behind his back, he slowly made his way around the living room, looking over every tiny detail, simply passing the time before he actually addressed his company properly. "Been up all night, then?" he called from over his shoulder, spending an awfully long time peering at the mantelpiece, noticing how it was distinctly lacking a skull. Whoever did actually reside here had a terrible taste for decoration. Turning on his heel, Sherlock regarded the man with a raised brow, no accusatory looks being thrown but simple curiosity. If he had indeed pulled an all-nighter just to pull all of this off...he'd never pegged Jim as the romantic type, but wasn't it just? Always giving each other presents, the two of them were, not that either remotely deserved it. In their own minds, sure, but to outside, objective parties...not that that mattered in the least. What did matter was that he hadn't been expecting Jim, a possibly still ill one at that but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care too much. More concerned, instead, with the dark circles under his eyes though not very - he was well accustomed to the after effects of being nocturnal and it never hurt anyone. Much.

Making another trip around the room, Sherlock finally stopped at the back of the sofa again, resting an elbow on it. Probably hadn't had a nap, though he did wonder how long Jim had been here. A few hours, at least, to allow enough time for him to figure out the address. Such dedication that Sherlock had to admire it. It would be dangerous to get any closer, especially so early; the detective wasn't even certain as to what exactly Jim's plans were here, the first of many and obviously being that he wanted to impress. Simple enough to do, especially when he'd given such good examples of it before that he really didn't need to try too hard. "I hope not. Sleep deprivation isn't good for the body, especially coming down from a cold." He'd answered his own question, though presented another silent one, indirectly inquiring as to whether or not Jim had made a full recovery. Teasing and games were at the top of the priority list, though he'd be lying to himself if he said he wasn't curious about the man's well-being, resting his chin in hand as he lazily regarded the consultant beneath him.

-

If the criminal had been hoping the surprise would simmer longer, keep a bit of distance between them - that had been wrong and wishful thinking. Sherlock was quick in bouncing back from it, as cool as could be, and Jim fought against finding it unnerving. It was actually rather fascinating, that the mere sight of him would make Sherlock set down the weapon, and waste no time in coming so close. There were other mistakes here, too. Small, unforeseen factors. That Sherlock had left his coat at home, and was all lithe limbs and long neck and trim waist and visible everything. That Jim in his repose was not so much casual, as laid out like an offering. These were wrenches in the plan to maintain control of any sort, and Jim was the picture of curious passivity as Sherlock reached out, watching the long, lovely fingers as they drifted over his chest. Damn it. Could the oh-so-observant detective feel his pulse? So much for barbed wire between them. Why, Sherlock was almost possessive in his daring, as if Jim comfortably and irrefutably belonged to him. It made his breath catch silently when he realized how these moments tied to previous ones, and that Sherlock had apparently taken his response to _You’re mine?_ very much to heart.

The forces at work here were undeniable and unstoppable, without a great deal of will. Because at the moment, Jim’s first instinct was to pull Sherlock right over the back of the sofa, perhaps by a tugging handful of curls, and kiss him senseless. The thought might have shown in the helpless and hungry smile that quirked up on one side of his mouth, and disappeared as quickly. Sherlock danced away again, diverting them both from the bout of temptation, and it was for the best, because shouldn’t he be focused on the case? Sherlock had a dead body, an address, a _possible_ culprit, and nothing else to go on. That really should have held his interest more than- oh, good _god_ , did the lack of coat do wonders. Talk about distraction. Jim’s gaze followed the detective as he wandered the room, each step against the wood floor nearly echoing in the space, and it struck him how very alone they were here. Anything at all could happen… When Sherlock turned to glance his way, Jim didn’t bother to disguise that he’d indulged in what could only be called ogling, and gave a non-committal hum to a question he, in all honesty, hadn’t really heard. Been too busy deciding that Sherlock’s backside was biologically and geometrically improbable in relation to the rest of him. And superb.

Jim was prey, lying here like this, and Sherlock seemed, despite the casual air, to know it. Sans muffler and coat, Jim was graced with a perfect view of his lover’s neck, and all he’d have to do was sit up a little to get at it. Swipe of tongue, graze of teeth, and maybe Sherlock’s knees would give out, or he’d make some of those lovely sounds. There was no challenge in that, and hadn’t Jim promised one? The game today had so many layers, more than were worth charting or naming. Of course, some games had no chance of having clear winners or losers, or were doomed before they even began. But they were always worth playing. There was much to be learned from doing so.

Jim swallowed, caressing Sherlock’s neck with his eyes until their trail ended at the dazzlingly blue ones. Ah, lack of sleep, yes, that had been the previous question. The body Sherlock mentioned shifted against the sofa, which Jim shouldn’t have been reclined upon, the cost of the suit the least of reasons, and the criminal’s jaw was slack as he just took in the sight of the other. He wanted to sit up but doing so might just bring them closer, and invite a sure end to at least one aspect of the game. “Oh, I feel just fine,” Jim assured him, blithely conversational though his voice was low and thick with ignorable tiredness. There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, brows rising and falling above them. “One would think you’d have better things to worry about, murder and all…” He trailed off with the hint of a smirk.

-

If there were anything he could say at the moment with absolute certainty, it was that Jim was currently devouring him with his eyes. And it would be the lie of the century to say that Sherlock wasn't enjoying it in the least bit. Such a dangerous situation for the two of them to be in, two extremely vain creatures, interested in only the pleasures of life, whatever they may be and doing any means necessary to obtain those pleasures. Jim perhaps a bit more willing to do so, though it seemed Sherlock wasn't far behind. It was anything but a weakness for the criminal, showing his obvious appreciation for Sherlock's own not-so-innocent display at the moment. He was most likely even giving off a bit of appreciation himself, had already shown it, even, in the form of a hand running down the man's chest. The thought occurred again that if they started this teasing this early, him without even asking why Jim was there in the first place, not much would get accomplished for either one. The detective was still technically on the clock and the case and as good as a distraction was, he did have a job to do. Eventually. 

The man on the sofa did look awfully tired, though not pushing it into exhausted and while Sherlock could have demanded he go and rest up before they try this again, he would simply have to wake the criminal up a bit. It might be a bit difficult, as he wasn't exactly sure how to handle a sleepless Jim and therefore couldn't gauge his mood and so would have to tread a bit carefully. He was probably no different from how Sherlock is without a night of sleep, perhaps even more well-adjusted as he was most likely used to it, having to properly run his empire at all hours of the day and night whereas Sherlock did what he pleased and slept whenever and wherever his body dropped him off at. He told himself that if Jim were truly that exhausted, he wouldn't be here at the moment and Sherlock was just the least bit touched at that. Unprecedented to have feelings like this, or even feelings at all, though he'd stopped trying to deny it a while ago, easier to accept than fight it.

Still, there was the matter of showing his thanks for the two delightful presents that had tided him over whilst Jim was out on business, ones that he didn't have any obligation to do. If anything, a verbal thanks would be best to give now - he had manners when he so chose. "I worry about murder daily," he answered, once again reaching a hand down to lightly trace his hand, this time up the man's chest. "It's my job, if you recall." Taking the tie in hand, gripped more at the knot than further down, Sherlock just barely stood on tip toe as he leaned over the back of the sofa, bringing Jim up just slightly as well, making up for more of the distance himself to avoid choking the criminal. "Which I intend to do just as soon as possible." The detective was close now, teasing by proximity, volume dropping lower as he became closer. "But there are more...pressing matters at the moment..." At last, he pressed against the other's lips, steadying himself with his other hand on the back of the sofa so as to avoid a sprawling mess of limbs. He knew this was arguably not the best way to be spending time on a case, though in his defense, he was doing research of a sort.

-

More pressing matters than murder. Coming from Sherlock Holmes, those were strong words. In fact, it seemed that with every conversation and encounter, Sherlock managed to cut off and do away with another chunk of Jim’s inherent doubt. Whether the man was conscious of this or not, there was no way of knowing, but did it do much good? To Jim, who doubted even _lack_ of doubt, it may have been in vain. But at the moment, that didn’t matter a whit. Jim had risen with the unspoken command to do so, right elbow propped on the sofa cushions – his pupils had expanded at the grip on his tie, the tug, the demand of it. Despite how slowly it occurred, the move spoke of passion and daring, both of which struck the criminal as wonderful results. Jim could pretend all he liked that he may not want something, but Sherlock was bound to take what he wanted – oh, that was so good.

He could feel Sherlock’s very breaths; it was a closeness that, depending which piece of the puzzle Jim wished to pick apart, either negated games or passed secret tests with flying colors. Jim smiled as the centimeters between them disappeared, sighing into the touch of lips that was almost tender. Soft, appreciative, a touch that both had missed and been reckless enough to say so. Jim’s lips parted to close over Sherlock’s more fully before sucking the plush lower one between them. Making up for lost time and opportunities made his mind even hazier, but not in an unpleasant way, and a soft moan sounded purposely in his throat – not exactly faked but created entirely for Sherlock’s benefit, rather than being forced from him. The nips and brushes were sans teeth, though he couldn’t resist swiping his tongue across Sherlock’s lip before releasing it. The criminal was hit with the odd realization that he could probably spend entire days this way; that was not a very productive thought, but a beautifully indulgent one, and he’d have stayed put even if Sherlock let go of his tie.

Jim’s left hand drifted up to Sherlock’s side, just above his hip, and squeezed lightly as his lips pursed once more against the other’s, ending the kiss as it had begun. He wanted to keep Sherlock wanting. His thumb made thoughtless little circles, and Jim took a moment just to breathe, let the spell of the affectionate little greeting have its way with both of their brains. “Well,” he murmured finally, “Is that how you interrogate all your prime suspects? Or am I just lucky?”

-

Sherlock had been grateful that his silent command for Jim to pull himself up had been answered, otherwise, it would not have ended very well. Choking the man was not on his list of priorities at the moment, or at least, not this soon. In this context, perhaps, though Jim didn't need to know that. He could have been wrong, though it did appear that his company wanted this just as much as he did, if the eagerness with which the criminal returned the kiss was anything to go by. A very interesting thing indeed - Sherlock was used to being at his beck and call, though didn't the tables seem turned at that moment? Him literally taking what he pleased, and Jim responding to it so well rather than attempting to take control. Though, he wouldn't have minded relinquishing that role, should the other man demand it. A push and pull with them, and so delightfully balanced was it.

The muted moan made Sherlock pull the tie ever closer, wanting to both consume and cause more of them if he was able to, a low one sounding in his own in response. Nothing forced or rushed about the kiss, as it seemed they had all the time in the world here, and maybe that had been Jim's plan in the first place. Not that he would assume, of course, though if it wasn't, what a happy accident it had turned out to be. At the hand on his side, he was sighing onto the man's lips, almost as if he was melting. A bad idea for him to be seeking contact this soon, though Sherlock wasn't about to complain. To keep Jim distracted was to keep him awake, if only for a little while, as sitting here with a sleepy and nodding off criminal didn't sound too fun. He shifted just into the touch, a slight tilting of his hips as he pressed against the other more firmly.

The separation between them was really for the best, or Sherlock would have gotten a bit carried away, already having had thoughts of pulling the tie off. Wasn't that just funny, though, Jim being the voice of reason when he really had no right to be, going by society's standards. Society wasn't with them, though, only the detective and the criminal, and they only had eyes for each other at the moment. But damn if Jim still was still teasing him through his clothes, and that just wasn't fair. The question distracted him for just a moment from the touch and his inevitably growing heated skin underneath it, giving a laugh. 

"You're very lucky," he answered, licking his lips before doing so. "And I'm sure you're close to cracking under the pressure." If Jim wished to play the part of the criminal at the moment, Sherlock would happily play along, as he was certain the true murderer wouldn't be nearly as delightful. The detective connected them again, though shorter and more fervent than the first, just to show that he was in fact teasing. Pulling away again, he exhaled slowly before posing his own question to Jim. "I'm sure you didn't lead me here simply to wind me up, which begs the question, what _are_ you doing here?"

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A call for patience, as life has cut in and muses have gotten sleepy. We'll have more for you guys as soon as humanly possible. -The Jim)


	7. want your everything as long as it's free

It was silly to make promises. To oneself, of resolve. To Sherlock, to expect a challenge. Because the ways Sherlock looked at him now, and kissed him, and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the moment, made Jim want to break those promises. It didn’t matter that strangers’ possessions and decorations lined the foreign walls around them – if anything, it was a meeting on neutral ground, less disconcerting than on either’s home turf. Fewer rules and concerns. They wouldn’t be interrupted here. It made Jim a little breathless, or maybe that was just the grip on his tie. Closer to cracking than Sherlock even knew, though it did seem several games could be played at once.

To slip entirely away and off the sofa would be all too revealing as an escape. To let Sherlock know the extent of his alluring advantage seemed a dangerous thing, even if he could already guess at it sans confirmation. Control. Had to _maintain_ ; they’d barely occupied the same space for a minute, for Chrissake. In arranging this, had Jim not hoped a little to prove his nightmare wrong? To have a good laugh in the face of his own subconscious, that was one hoped-for result. It was reminding himself of this that made Jim glance down at Sherlock’s hand, removing his own from the detective’s side to wind his fingers through the longer ones, and carefully extricate the fabric. He set Sherlock’s hand gently on the back of the sofa, giving it an almost condescending little pat as his knees shifted up, and Jim pushed himself up from his reclined pose. He could widen the gap between them, but what fun would that really be? Being marginally overwhelmed didn’t rule out overwhelming in return.

So he further risked the perfect creases and dust-free status of a very good suit, to kneel upon the sofa cushions, putting himself as much in Sherlock’s space as was possible with something between them. On anyone else the posture might have been coy – it was something of a vulnerable position to be in, all things considered, but he didn’t intend on remaining there long, and it gave him access to Sherlock’s neck. He didn’t use this but for the barest drift of fingertips, and Jim was smiling at the other like the cat who’d eaten a full cage of canaries. He hummed softly, as if truly considering Sherlock’s question - there may yet be something interesting in it for the detective, but if work had distracted from Jim in the past, Jim could distract from work. Just to know that he could. “Oh, but doesn’t that just _sound_ like something I’d do?” He wanted to watch Sherlock think.

-

That Jim had finally decided to free himself of Sherlock's grip, which hadn't been very hard in the first place - done so more as a symbolic representation, of what, though, he wasn't exactly sure - was quite amusing. A demonstration that he, too, could take control or perhaps, more simply, that he wished to take what little control Jim was attempting to maintain here. The latter seemed more likely and though he knew he wasn't exactly entitled to said control, it made it that much more challenging to attempt to take it away. From the look on his face, however, the criminal didn't seem to mind giving it up, if only to humour Sherlock or whether he did actually want it taken - the detective wasn't able to tell for certain just yet. Either way, the relinquishing of the tie was symbolic in its own right, though he didn't attempt to fight or take hold of it again. Changeable, that's what Jim was, and himself, and the entire situation. Let it surprise him.

He'd raised a brow at the little pat on his hand and would have been a bit insulted if it was anyone else but Jim, and anyway was far too enthralled in watching as the man shifted his position, eyes travelling just a bit past the posture overall to rest on the man's posterior, which was currently stuck in midair and, Sherlock assumed, entirely intentional. Jim had done his fair share of ogling for the evening and now it was his turn, though when the eyes of the object of said ogling were on him, it made it a bit more difficult, not that Sherlock would be stopping any time soon just because he was being watched. At the touch of cool fingertips on his neck, he refocused his gaze on his company, fingers on the back of the sofa gripping just so. Sherlock may have had an effect on the other, but Jim knew how to cause the same effect himself.

Avoiding the question, it seemed. An interesting tactic, and Sherlock really should have known better that he would reveal whatever he had planned in due time. Still, though, the question being turned back on him did in fact make him think. It did seem like something Jim would do, even down to interfering in a murder or even causing it simply to get the address from the victim. Had he not invited the man out to a concert simply to wind him up as well? Not at first, though it didn't take a genius such as himself to infer that throwing Jim at him and in a dark environment wouldn't inevitably lead to something. It wasn't exactly dark here, though they were alone... There was a simple answer, though Sherlock wasn't willing to give it, no matter how much the fingers on his neck supported it.

"No, but then..." he began, keeping his voice as steady as possible as he stared down at the man, exhaling slowly. "I've come to learn to expect nothing but the unexpected from you." A cryptic answer, perhaps, though he had a feeling Jim wasn't expecting a proper answer to the question he'd posed in the first place. He pulled away slowly, almost regretfully before relocating to the chair across from the sofa. It had been a much better place to hide a currently rising situation from the criminal, though crossing his legs and folding his hands over his lap helped a bit. Simply had to distance himself for a short while and also possibly may have let his gaze linger on the man's rear before exhaling again. It seemed they would be having all day to have a battle of wills.

-

The expectant amusement never faded from Jim’s face – Sherlock’s answer was a good one. Such wit and flattery, sweet enough to send him into diabetic coma. He liked, too, the brief conflict that passed over the detective’s face at being touched, and his obviously wandering eyes. It made him very much want to ask what Sherlock had going on in that pretty head of his. Surely it wasn’t as centered on the murder as it should have been. But speared by that icy, arguably fond gaze, Jim could lose sight of the need to challenge, and be challenged in turn. So it was something of a blessing when Sherlock rose to full height and slipped away, and they both knew it as such. It would hardly be any fun without playing the game.

Jim’s eyes followed him, noted the careful way he held himself and oh _, a reaction_. It was possibly the lack of sleep that had made the criminal keep the kiss something of – what a concept – tenderness, as opposed to let it really take hold of him, but a few more seconds with Sherlock so close might have killed the resolve. He was enjoying altogether too much having all the pieces of the puzzle while Sherlock didn’t. Was that cruel, or just par for the course? The way things were meant to be. Even if the man himself threw Jim off-kilter, Jim would always, in some respects, be the leader to Sherlock’s blindly willing follower.

Here and there.

Ish.

It all had a way of getting muddled, somewhere down the line. It was each’s fault as much as the other, which in itself was an assurance that had not been there mere weeks ago. This time, Sherlock had taken the lead in increasing the distance, and so Jim followed suit, turning on the sofa to swing one leg and then the other from it, and rise with a shrug. “That’s wise of you,” he commented, his hands folding behind his back as he made his way to one window, the one through whose blinds the midday light still slipped in, that he’d forgotten about before. He made some little show of reaching up and twirling the stick so that they shuttered closed, ignoring Sherlock’s eyes on him, ignoring his own not-so-secret urge to perch upon Sherlock’s lap and reveal whispered hints between more kisses.

A clue or two lay on the tip of his tongue, but he wasn’t in the habit of just doling them out, so other taunts came easier, more naturally. Taunts tossed with a glance over his shoulder, mirroring Sherlock’s earlier casual pose, ones like, “Will John be gone long?” As much to unnerve with the scope of his knowledge of the goings-on at 221b Baker Street, but also to find out how much time they had, for certain. If Jim taunted too much or left Sherlock to chase down a case, well, that was time he couldn’t afford to waste.  

-

The immediate shift in both men's positions, mirrored in a matter of seconds fascinated Sherlock, who took a few moments to simply appreciate that the opportunity of that happening had arisen and that they'd actually acted on it. Although it seemed to be clear who had a better grasp on the situation and their own resolve at the moment, he still couldn't help but feel a bit like a student back at uni, watching the world-weary professor turn and recollect his thoughts before posing a question of his own back. Of course, the context was completely different, as the detective was sure that no university professors asked such questions as how long their students' flatmate would be out. Still, he was put on the spot, as he wasn't even sure of the answer himself - to provide a wrong one would prove detrimental to both the situation and Jim's trust of him during future escapades, if there would even be more after this. He took a deep breath - he could work this one out, given the context clues, and he did so work things out better out loud than in his head.

"Said he was going to visit his sister, though they aren't on very good terms and unless they miraculously work out their differences, I imagine he won't spend more than a day or so there before attempting to talk her into sobriety - futile, obviously. From then, a yelling match and after that, I will receive a text that he is on his way back." It was a quick-fire deduction that showed Sherlock wanted to arrive at a favourable conclusion as quickly as possible, though there might have been a hint of showing off for his present company. He was well aware that Jim was used to these, had heard them or at least been aware of them, but he simply couldn't resist another one. It was, after all, apparently what had drawn the criminal to him in the first place. Normally, he would have asked whoever he had practically rambled at if he needed to, annoyingly, repeat it, though to ask as much of Jim would have been an insult, the knowledge that he had indeed understood giving him the utmost satisfaction.

It wasn't until he was waiting for a reaction that he forgot the most important detail. Leaning forward slightly in the chair, a hint of a smile crossed the man's face as he regarded the other. "And he left this morning, so there should be an ample amount of time for whatever amorous activities you had in mind." Sherlock finished the obviously excessive answer with the smile softening into a completely self-amused smirk, knowing that it wasn't what Jim was looking for - or maybe it was, given the criminal's paranoia. Wanting to cover all of his bases, perhaps, something that he couldn't fault him for. Sherlock had no problem putting his mind at ease in that regard, and it did feel a bit better telling himself that John would be able to have no knowledge of this encounter, if he had anything to say about it.

Dropping his elbow onto his crossed knee and placing chin in hand, he watched Jim with curiosity burning in his expression, literally on the edge of whomever's seat it was to find out what the man would make of this information.

-

John Watson’s family life did not rate high on the list of interesting things; the steady stream of Sherlock’s baritone was far more intriguing to the criminal, who kept his face impassive as he listened. Truth be told, Jim only really heard about a quarter of the detective’s spiel, just the information that was relevant: they had limited time together. This changed things a little, in his estimation. Had they a full two days of Sherlock’s relative freedom, perhaps Jim might push him just far enough away to focus on the case. That would, of course, be a step backwards, especially considering that Jim was hearing everything he’d hoped to. In the constant effort to confuse Sherlock, perhaps he’d succeeded in confusing himself. That Sherlock wanted him even when there was murder afoot, was proven now. That Jim appreciated this fact was signified in his turning away from those sparkling eyes again, all the better to hide the little smile that tugged at his lips. Oh, he could doubt this endlessly, but what good could it really do? He’d want and want, whether having was a possibility or not. It was, though, and to miss the opportunity was something for which Jim would only berate himself later. Hadn’t he lost enough sleep for Sherlock already?

He shouldn’t simply stand there, waiting for Sherlock to prove his intentions. The words were proof enough. He shouldn’t even play at forcing Sherlock back to work, or the smug bastard might just take him up on that. They were always toeing a fine line, in regards to the other’s capacity for stubbornness. Jim’s brain rapidly provided him with moving pictures of every possible scenario: asking Sherlock why he presumed to be able to read Jim’s mind, walking out, leaving the other alone with his professional productivity and surprise. No, Sherlock had said all the right things today. There was no reason to punish themselves.

Striding right over sans another unimportant or teasing word, trapping Sherlock to the chair with his own frame, and kissing him until neither could breathe. Appealing. So very.

Sending a text that would ensure another murder, another phone call from the Yard to keep Sherlock busy, and Jim’s senses unshaken, his body and heart untouched. That sounded as spiritually exhausting as it had always been, as satisfying as it might be to the man in the room whose very presence was akin to caffeine to a sleepless Jim, who had wished enough times that Dr. Watson simply wasn’t around.

For one so accustomed to making complicated decisions, it was occasionally difficult to accept that some were very easily made. Jim had no choice but to allow the allure of that voice and those eyes and those damned kissable lips to make this one for him. He hummed as if in consideration. “Someone really _did_ miss me,” Jim observed, tone light and playful, utilizing his last shred of control to keep his back turned against the gaze he could almost feel. The chair wouldn’t really fit them both, after all, but this was the last bit of challenge he had in him. Jim was nearly certain Sherlock would rise to it.

-

Jim didn't seem to be the kind to point out the obvious, not when Sherlock had shown enough times that he practically awaited whatever attention that the man was willing to toss at him. Perhaps subconsciously, perhaps not; either way, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he always missed Jim, whether it was the cases or the time spent in between waiting for said cases. This recently involved fooling around with the provider of them and having none the wiser, a situation that seemed to be too good to be true. How neither of them had gotten caught - though, to be fair, Sherlock had far more risk factors than Jim - was a mystery to even him, though that might be partly why they hadn't. The criminal, so careful with his own business ventures that he had used a stranger's house just to meet. And the detective, who was forced to wait until his flatmate had left town to even be able to do something as innocent as meeting with his questionable rival.

It did annoy him at times that he felt the need to sneak around John when he was, in theory, a grown adult and shouldn't worry about what sort of 'trouble' he would get in should John find out. Sherlock was capable of making his own decisions without having a Greek chorus to lecture him about it later. The only problem was that he was ninety-nine percent certain that the news would travel to his brother, who held far more authoritative power than he was comfortable with. Just as his wary partner had his own concerns, Sherlock had his as well. Such was their circumstance.

Worries like that had no place between them now, not when he had Jim oh so ready and willing just a few strides away. And what possible good did it do to close himself off? Body language was nearly as important as spoken, and the last thing he wished to do was to push the other man away. "You have _no_ idea," was finally the answer given, Sherlock making sure to drop his usual baritone just a few notches to ensure that Jim was listening. "Would you like me to show you just how much?" he asked, uncrossing his long legs as he did so, fingers splaying out on the ends of the arm rests to grip the chair just so. A treat for the criminal should he decide to turn around and given all the hard work he'd achieved just to get them there, one he certainly deserved.

-

Despite being a few mere words, the gist of which Jim had fully expected to hear, the effect of Sherlock’s assurance was surprisingly profound. Who else, really, would ever miss him or claim to? He’d given Sherlock reasons to, sure. But the rumbling sentence and all the images it conjured made Jim want to know even before Sherlock spoke again, the invitation sending a flare of warmth through him, curling in his gut. He wanted to ignore it for the sake of doing so, to challenge, to give Sherlock the ol’ razzle da- ah, hell. Anything Sherlock had said before that just didn’t seem _right_ or didn’t make _sense_ – this did not matter. Jim rarely acted on impulse without calculation, but he’d done so much calculating, and following impulse would lead right to the much longed-for result.

Jim turned on his heel, swinging his gaze up from the floor to meet Sherlock’s eyes. At the enticing vision before him, his jaw slackened. Were he less a gentleman, he might have uttered a curse. But all manners aside, Jim’s slow steps nearer came with an appraising sweep of hungry eyes down Sherlock’s body. A self-assured and seductive presence at once, with those beautiful hands and slim everything and thighs parted just so, enough for Jim to notice the obvious state of arousal. The criminal’s tongue ran over his lower lip and stayed there a moment as he took this all in, and attempted not to pant audibly. Whatever fight his higher mind would have liked to put up, it wasn’t happening in the face of this much beauty. The air in the room seemed to have thickened around them so quickly, wrapping around doubt and choking it until it could speak no more.

Pure, unadulterated _want_ , stronger than any fundamental force yet scientifically classified, had the reigns. Suppressed for even the few minutes since they’d arrived, it begged for attention now as surely but less discreetly as they did for each other’s. In getting as close as possible, Jim had had to step over an outstretched leg, his own placed on either side of it as he peered down at Sherlock, whose neck again proved an irresistible temptation. The backs of Jim’s fingers caressed over it and earlobe, practically petting Sherlock, as if such a gesture would do any good for extinguishing the growing flames. Fingers unfurling, his thumb brushed over sharp cheekbone, daring to dance over Sherlock’s lower lip, the sight and softness of it making him hard. Jim’s face was a mask of hazy, lustful reverence as he leaned down, hand running up into Sherlock’s curls as he gave the answer for which he hadn’t managed to find words. Some endless well of patience had run dry. A resounding _yes_ , said the fingers tightening in black locks; a _please_ , impossible to voice, finding expression in the sudden force with which his lips crashed into Sherlock’s. His upper body surged forth as the kiss deepened and Jim found secret, silent amusement in thinking that maybe Sherlock didn’t really know what he was getting himself into. A fanciful pedestal of a thought, made for lesser people than themselves - but it kept Jim from simply melting. Though it did nothing to hold back a soft growl of a moan, which between kisses managed to become a breathless, “Show me.”

-

If he didn't know Jim any better, the look that he was giving coupled with the eerie but desirable slowness that he was approaching with might have made Sherlock a bit wary. He wasn't, however, by any means - he had been the one who started this battle of wills, though hadn't expected such an early finish. Didn't blame his company either, for he was just as surprised by his own offering, if not more so. Pinned down by Jim's unrelenting gaze, the detective couldn't do much more than wait for the criminal to claim his prize.

For what was a more difficult question to answer. Managing to keep Sherlock fully interested in him even while he was halfway around the world, literally blowing to smithereens someone who could have killed him and most of all, being the one individual that he could actually say made him realise he wasn't alone. Hadn't been since Jim had first made himself known but it wasn't until recently that Sherlock had begun to realise it. For that, he couldn't express his appreciation enough, though it appeared he was doing a bang-up job of starting to do so if the reactions he was getting were any indication.

Staying perfectly still as he was approached, lest it break the sort of spell he seemed to be casting over the other man, only responding to the gentle touch of fingers by leaning into them. Starved for attention even with Jim standing right in front of him, hesitation non-existent as he dared to give a single, fleeting lap at the digit on his lip. It would only be cruel to tease so much if he didn't intend to follow through with said teasing, and they had all of the time in the world now. He expressed his eager nature by returning the kiss, matching Jim's fervour with a content sigh - of relief, of finally being able to reconnect after being apart. 

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice before his roaming hands were off of the chair and hooked onto the criminal's hips, glad that they were tangible and free to touch rather than having to imagine how they would feel. His grip tightened when Jim surged forward, glad to see that even while sleep-deprived, he was most definitely interested in the situation at hand. One of his hands released its hold, not having far to wander before it slipped in between their pressed bodies, pressing enough to make his presence and intention known against Jim's obvious arousal. It lingered there just long enough for Sherlock to properly tease; cruel, yes, but he imagined it wouldn't go unnoticed, before he was gripping his hips again. That didn't nearly cover how much he actually missed his counterpart, but seemed a good enough opener.

-

Jim might have berated himself for what seemed like capitulation, for losing the battle with higher thinking. Did this make them ordinary? What a horrifying thought – if Sherlock were less interested in the proceedings, it may have held sway and kept Jim at a careful, self-imposed distance. But the lack of sleep had was convincing him to shove those concerns to the back of his mind, and Sherlock’s hands reaching to touch and steady him brushed the rest away.

It was rumoured that before death, one’s life flashed before their eyes. Some curious facsimile of that was happening now behind Jim’s closed lids as his lips worked passionately against the other’s. Every moment that led to this one – the lab at Bart’s, the waiting, the pool, the wanting, the bar, making Sherlock chase him, the never-ending tease, the supply closet where true privacy was but a dream…all of these fired rapidly, vividly through his mind, and made the kiss that much more eager. He was tired, yes, ergo easily swayed. But more than anything, he was tired of bothering to run from that which he wanted most. One could only mix business and pleasure for so long, before one had to make a choice.

At long last, they had a time and place utterly alone together, and Sherlock was helping him choose.

Hips unable to remain still, Jim ground into the touch, a sharp and stuttering inhale making his lips part and break away. Too good, too mind-numbing, too much and not enough. He managed to cut it off before it became a moan; just because he felt like putty in Sherlock’s hands didn’t mean he had to show it. Sorely tempted to simply sink down onto the detective’s lap, Jim resisted, standing his ground as best he could as he tilted his head to nuzzle at Sherlock’s neck. It wasn’t clear, as the touch proved a tease, whether Sherlock was trying to push him away or pull him nearer, and for all the ferocity of the kiss, this was still new territory. Best not to push but, oh, he could still manipulate. A smile curved his parted lips as they dragged across pale skin and upwards, the hand in Sherlock’s curls drifting down to toy with the overworked top button of his shirt. “Mm…only that much?” he questioned in a taunting murmur, breath warm and a little ragged against the shell of Sherlock’s ear. Irresistible, the urge to trace its curves with his tongue, wondering idly whether anyone else ever had. As much as Jim may have been Sherlock’s for the taking, it went both ways, and he had every intention of playing Sherlock like a fine instrument – to draw sounds from every touch to sensitive skin, to master him, to make every nerve ending sing.

-

The question had been posed to Sherlock regarding whether or not he missed Jim, but if he had to take a shot in the dark, he could deduce that Jim had missed him as well. Not that such a simple sentiment such as that should ever be admitted from the man, but he could take the evidence - deepening the kiss, the hand in his hair - and add it up for himself. Missing another person wasn't akin to anything but just that, and the detective was well aware of that fact. Whether or not he wanted it to mean something more than that was a problem he would choose to ignore, considering missing Jim was not a problem he had at the moment and instead had to worry about exactly how much time they had together. It had only been a few minutes, though with the agonizing, fantastic slowness with which they were going, it felt like hours. 

Which wasn't to say Sherlock didn't like it. Better to take it a bit slower than rush headfirst into anything and prove himself to live up to the criminal's nickname for him. It would be better to die from embarrassment, should that be possible than to allow that to happen. Still, he enjoyed the tempo with which they were currently setting, continually upping the ante and expecting the other to respond appropriately to it. He had done so first, with his bout of teasing and was met with a response of playing with his top button. Good, but could be so much better. A statement made useless by Jim's breath at his ear, his eyes slipping shut for a moment to enjoy the sensory overload, lips parting in an appreciative sigh. There wasn't a method of measuring exactly how much he had wanted the other man back. Well, not in the conventional sense.

"Showing is much better than telling," was Sherlock’s whispered answer to such a loaded question. He could spout off all of the many reasons he missed his counterpart, leaving off that little bout of sickness and misunderstanding, of course. The oh so generous gifts given, the damn sentiment behind one of them, the steamy session they had shared where Sherlock had given promise that Jim was his upon his return. All things he could list off but it would be more enjoyable for both to put his money where his mouth was. And currently, it wanted to be much lower.

His hands remained on Jim's hips as he gently pushed him off but only for a moment, rising from the chair himself and turning, forcing the man back into it. He remained standing for a second afterward before dropping to his knees, amused at how he was still almost level with Jim in the chair even kneeling. The height difference proved to be effective at times like this, when he could grace the criminal with another kiss while still comfortably reaching a hand out to palm him through no doubt expensive trousers. Reversed positions, just as he'd done in the supply closet - taking control even while at half-height. "Unless you would prefer a detailed list, I'm sure I can show you just how much without saying a word."

-

It was little more than an easy, natural nudge into the chair, but it was enough to press a button in Jim’s brain that started the alarm bells, bright and whirring. Perhaps he was merely unused to being physically maneuvered around, no matter the precedent set on their fateful night ignoring live music. Perhaps it was more difficult than even he knew, to make his mind shut up and enjoy something. Jim wanted it to. It was in his half-lidded eyes as he regarded Sherlock once the dazed kiss broke, a silent plea to make the thinking stop. Silent, because he couldn’t beg anything of anyone. No, he wasn’t going to run from Sherlock. But that didn’t mean he was going to fall prey to him, either. The million conflicting thoughts he’d spoken of before were not merely going to dissipate just because Sherlock looked so lovely on his knees. It was an incongruous sight, really – Sherlock didn’t belong below him. It shocked the mind back to reasoning, which strove ever to be either a buzzkill or at least a Note to Self that said maintaining a balance of control was key.

It could all be so easy. But it wasn’t.

Sherlock might be getting a rise and a pleasured sigh out of him, but James Moriarty was not a slave to his body. How much simpler things could be, if he were. And this could go down in personal history as one of his more self-sabotaging 180 _°_ turns, but he wanted to be sure – not only of Sherlock’s meaning behind his intentions, but that Jim could ignore either if he wished. That he might care about the true meanings was telling, too much so, and a secret he’d more or less keep. But this was a war of addicts’ wills, no battle too small to be considered unworthy of fighting.

Jim sat now on the very edge of the chair, and caught sight of the table just past Sherlock’s shoulder, the gun on it. Its presence wasn’t half as dangerous as the game he was playing now. A bullet to the brain, hey, you’d feel nothing seconds later. But thoughts, feelings…damn them all…far quieter, and could bleed bloodlessly for so long.

Which should have been enough to make the criminal rise from the chair, coldly remind Sherlock he had a case to work on, and stroll right out. To enquire was to possibly receive honest answers, and that was as heady as any other force at work between them. Almost terrifying. But since when had terrifying Sherlock stopped being fun? It rarely worked, he had to give the detective credit there, but this time the means and battlefield were different. Sliding off the seat, Jim landed practically in Sherlock’s lap, his knees on either side of the thighs on which he perched. None of the conflict was visible on Jim’s face, replaced with the all-concealing smile of a spider firmly trapping a fly. The contact wasn’t without its benefits; pressed flush to Sherlock, either could succeed in distracting each other anew with a roll of hips. The physicality served its purpose of lightening up the intensity that had suddenly gripped Jim’s mind and made him nearly miserable. Things like confusion and hope always had that effect, usually followed by cynicism or rage. Thankfully they didn’t occur often. But putting them in Sherlock’s hands? Oh, foolish. Against everything Jim stood for, ordinarily. And he was going to do it anyway.

Jim’s hands rose to Sherlock’s shoulders before tracing down the line of his shirt to the buttons, undoing the tempting first one, taking sweet time with the second and third as his eyes met Sherlock’s, eyebrows raising. “You have a list?” His tone was playful, disguising the possible importance of the question. Jim wasn’t asking for details, but before much else occurred, he liked the idea that the details might exist. Could always be a list of lies, anyway, for whatever reason Sherlock saw fit. But how the detective responded to this change of course overall, would do much for either soothing Jim’s concerns or proving them right. He didn’t want _payback_ , out of obligation or to keep the dangerous madman happy. Nor did he like the idea of _feelings_ mucking up matters between them to the point where they demanded expression. But surely there was some pleasing middle ground for which Sherlock, who was known to have an answer for everything, did have words...


	8. Chapter 8




End file.
